#inklingschallenge

[bookshelf-in-progress]

A Wise Pair of Fools: A Retelling of “The Farmer’s Clever Daughter”

For the Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge at @inklings-challenge.

Faith

I wish you could have known my husband when he was a young man. How you would have laughed at him! He was so wonderfully pompous—oh, you’d have no idea unless you’d seen him then. He’s weathered beautifully, but back then, his beauty was bright and new, all bronze and ebony. He tried to pretend he didn’t care for personal appearances, but you could tell he felt his beauty. How could a man not be proud when he looked like one of creation’s freshly polished masterpieces every time he stepped out among his dirty, sweaty peasantry?

But his pride in his face was nothing compared to the pride he felt over his mind. He was clever, even then, and he knew it. He’d grown up with an army of nursemaids to exclaim, “What a clever boy!” over every mildly witty observation he made. He’d been tutored by some of the greatest scholars on the continent, attended the great universities, traveled further than most people think the world extends. He could converse like a native in fifteen living languages and at least three dead ones.

And books! Never a man like him for reading! His library was nothing to what it is now, of course, but he was making a heroic start. Always a book in his hand, written by some dusty old man who never said in plain language what he could dress up in words that brought four times the work to some lucky printer. Every second breath he took came out as a quotation. It fairly baffled his poor servants—I’m certain to this day some of them assume Plato and Socrates were college friends of his.

Well, at any rate, take a man like that—beautiful and over-educated—and make him king over an entire nation—however small—before he turns twenty-five, and you’ve united all earthly blessings into one impossibly arrogant being.

Unfortunately, Alistair’s pomposity didn’t keep him properly aloof in his palace. He’d picked up an idea from one of his old books that he should be like one of the judge-kings of old, walking out among his people to pass judgment on their problems, giving the inferior masses the benefit of all his twenty-four years of wisdom. It’s all right to have a royal patron, but he was so patronizing. Just as if we were all children and he was our benevolent father. It wasn’t strange to see him walking through the markets or looking over the fields—he always managed to look like he floated a step or two above the common ground the rest of us walked on—and we heard stories upon stories of his judgments. He was decisive, opinionated. Always thought he had a better way of doing things. Was always thinking two and ten and twelve steps ahead until a poor man’s head would be spinning from all the ways the king found to see through him. Half the time, I wasn’t sure whether to fear the man or laugh at him. I usually laughed.

So then you can see how the story of the mortar—what do you mean you’ve never heard it? You could hear it ten times a night in any tavern in the country. I tell it myself at least once a week! Everyone in the palace is sick to death of it!

Oh, this is going to be a treat! Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a fresh audience?

It happened like this. It was spring of the year I turned twenty-one. Father plowed up a field that had lain fallow for some years, with some new-fangled deep-cutting plow that our book-learned king had inflicted upon a peasantry that was baffled by his scientific talk. Father was plowing near a river when he uncovered a mortar made of solid gold. You know, a mortar—the thing with the pestle, for grinding things up. Don’t ask me why on earth a goldsmith would make such a thing—the world’s full of men with too much money and not enough sense, and housefuls of servants willing to take too-valuable trinkets off their hands. Someone decades ago had swiped this one and apparently found my father’s farm so good a hiding place that they forgot to come back for it.

Anyhow, my father, like the good tenant he was, understood that as he’d found a treasure on the king’s land, the right thing to do was to give it to the king. He was all aglow with his noble purpose, ready to rush to the palace at first light to do his duty by his liege lord.

I hope you can see the flaw in his plan. A man like Alistair, certain of his own cleverness, careful never to be outwitted by his peasantry? Come to a man like that with a solid gold mortar, and his first question’s going to be…?

That’s right. “Where’s the pestle?”

I tried to tell Father as much, but he—dear, sweet, innocent man—saw only his simple duty and went forth to fulfill it. He trotted into the king’s throne room—it was his public day—all smiles and eagerness.

Alistair took one look at him and saw a peasant tickled to death that he was pulling a fast one on the king—giving up half the king’s rightful treasure in the hopes of keeping the other half and getting a fat reward besides.

Alistair tore into my father—his tongue was much sharper then—taking his argument to pieces until Father half-believed he had hidden away the pestle somewhere, probably after stealing both pieces himself. In his confusion, Father looked even guiltier, and Alistair ordered his guard to drag Father off to the dungeons until they could arrange a proper hearing—and, inevitably, a hanging.

As they dragged him to his doom, my father had the good sense to say one coherent phrase, loud enough for the entire palace to hear. “If only I had listened to my daughter!”

Alistair, for all his brains, hadn’t expected him to say something like that. He had Father brought before him, and questioned him until he learned the whole story of how I’d urged Father to bury the mortar again and not say a word about it, so as to prevent this very scene from occurring.

About five minutes after that, I knocked over a butter churn when four soldiers burst into my father’s farmhouse and demanded I go with them to the castle. I made them clean up the mess, then put on my best dress and did up my hair—in those days, it was thick and golden, and fell to my ankles when unbound—and after traveling to the castle, I went, trembling, up the aisle of the throne room.

Alistair had made an effort that morning to look extra handsome and extra kingly. He still has robes like those, all purple and gold, but the way they set off his black hair and sharp cheekbones that day—I’ve never seen anything like it. He looked half-divine, the spirit of judgment in human form. At the moment, I didn’t feel like laughing at him.

Looming on his throne, he asked me, “Is it true that you advised this man to hide the king’s rightful property from him?” (Alistair hates it when I imitate his voice—but isn’t it a good impression?)

I said yes, it was true, and Alistair asked me why I’d done such a thing, and I said I had known this disaster would result, and he asked how I knew, and I said (and I think it’s quite good), that this is what happens when you have a king who’s too clever to be anything but stupid.

Naturally, Alistair didn’t like that answer a bit, but I’d gotten on a roll, and it was my turn to give him a good tongue-lashing. What kind of king did he think he was, who could look at a man as sweet and honest as my father and suspect him of a crime? Alistair was so busy trying to see hidden lies that he couldn’t see the truth in front of his face. So determined not to be made a fool of that he was making himself into one. If he persisted in suspecting everyone who tried to do him a good turn, no one would be willing to do much of anything for him. And so on and so forth.

You might be surprised at my boldness, but I had come into that room not expecting to leave it without a rope around my neck, so I intended to speak my mind while I had the chance. The strangest thing was that Alistair listened, and as he listened, he lost some of that righteous arrogance until he looked almost human. And the end of it all was that he apologized to me!

Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather at that! I didn’t faint, but I came darn close. That arrogant, determined young king, admitting to a simple farmer’s daughter that he’d been wrong?

He did more than admit it—he made amends. He let Father keep the mortar, and then bought it from him at its full value. Then he gifted Father the farm where we lived, making us outright landowners. After the close of the day’s hearings, he even invited us to supper with him, and I found that King Alistair wasn’t a half-bad conversational partner. Some of those books he read sounded almost interesting.

For a year after that, Alistair kept finding excuses to come by the farm. He would check on Father’s progress and baffle him with advice. We ran into each other in the street so often that I began to expect it wasn’t mere chance. We’d talk books, and farming, and sharpen our wits on each other. We’d do wordplay, puzzles, tongue-twisters. A game, but somehow, I always thought, some strange sort of test.

Would you believe, even his proposal was a riddle? Yes, an actual riddle! One spring morning, I came across Alistair on a corner of my father's land, and he got down on one knee, confessed his love for me, and set me a riddle. He had the audacity to look into the face of the woman he loved—me!—and tell me that if I wanted to accept his proposal, I would come to him at his palace, not walking and not riding, not naked and not dressed, not on the road and not off it.

Do you know, I think he actually intended to stump me with it? For all his claim to love me, he looked forward to baffling me! He looked so sure of himself—as if all his book-learning couldn’t be beat by just a bit of common sense.

If I’d really been smart, I suppose I’d have run in the other direction, but, oh, I wanted to beat him so badly. I spent about half a minute solving the riddle and then went off to make my preparations.

The next morning, I came to the castle just like he asked. Neither walking nor riding—I tied myself to the old farm mule and let him half-drag me. Neither on the road nor off it—only one foot dragging in a wheel rut at the end. Neither naked nor dressed—merely wrapped in a fishing net. Oh, don’t look so shocked! There was so much rope around me that you could see less skin than I’m showing now.

If I’d hoped to disappoint Alistair, well, I was disappointed. He radiated joy. I’d never seen him truly smile before that moment—it was incandescent delight. He swept me in his arms, gave me a kiss without a hint of calculation in it, then had me taken off to be properly dressed, and we were married within a week.

It was a wonderful marriage. We got along beautifully—at least until the next time I outwitted him. But I won’t bore you with that story again—

You don’t know that one either? Where have you been hiding yourself?

Oh, I couldn’t possibly tell you that one. Not if it’s your first time. It’s much better the way Alistair tells it.

What time is it?

Perfect! He’s in his library just now. Go there and ask him to tell you the whole thing.

Yes, right now! What are you waiting for?

Alistair

Faith told you all that, did she? And sent you to me for the rest? That woman! It’s just like her! She thinks I have nothing better to do than sit around all day and gossip about our courtship!

Where are you going? I never said I wouldn’t tell the story! Honestly, does no one have brains these days? Sit down!

Yes, yes, anywhere you like. One chair’s as good as another—I built this room for comfort. Do you take tea? I can ring for a tray—the story tends to run long.

Well, I’ll ring for the usual, and you can help yourself to whatever you like.

I’m sure Faith has given you a colorful picture of what I was like as a young man, and she’s not totally inaccurate. I’d had wealth and power and too much education thrown on me far too young, and I thought my blessings made me better than other men. My own father had been the type of man who could be fooled by every silver-tongued charlatan in the land, so I was sensitive and suspicious, determined to never let another man outwit me.

When Faith came to her father’s defense, it was like my entire self came crumbling down. Suddenly, I wasn’t the wise king; I was a cruel and foolish boy—but Faith made me want to be better. That day was the start of my fascination with her, and my courtship started in earnest not long after.

The riddle? Yes, I can see how that would be confusing. Faith tends to skip over the explanations there. A riddle’s an odd proposal, but I thought it was brilliant at the time, and I still think it wasn’t totally wrong-headed. I wasn’t just finding a wife, you see, but a queen. Riddles have a long history in royal courtships. I spent weeks laboring over mine. I had some idea of a symbolic proposal—each element indicating how she’d straddle two worlds to be with me. But more than that, I wanted to see if Faith could move beyond binary thinking—look beyond two opposites to see the third option between. Kings and queens have to do that more often than you’d think…

No, I’m sorry, it is a bit dull, isn’t it? I guess there’s a reason Faith skips over the explanations.

So to return to the point: no matter what Faith tells you, I always intended for her to solve the riddle. I wouldn’t have married her if she hadn’t—but I wouldn’t have asked if I’d had the least doubt she’d succeed. The moment she came up that road was the most ridiculous spectacle you’d ever hope to see, but I had never known such ecstasy. She’d solved every piece of my riddle, in just the way I’d intended. She understood my mind and gained my heart. Oh, it was glorious.

Those first weeks of marriage were glorious, too. You’d think it’d be an adjustment, turning a farmer’s daughter into a queen, but it was like Faith had been born to the role. Manners are just a set of rules, and Faith has a sharp mind for memorization, and it’s not as though we’re a large kingdom or a very formal court. She had a good mind for politics, and was always willing to listen and learn. I was immensely proud of myself for finding and catching the perfect wife.

You’re smarter than I was—you can see where I was going wrong. But back then, I didn’t see a cloud in the sky of our perfect happiness until the storm struck.

It seemed like such a small thing at the time. I was looking over the fields of some nearby villages—farming innovations were my chief interest at the time. There were so many fascinating developments in those days. I’ve an entire shelf full of texts if you’re interested—

The story, yes. My apologies. The offer still stands.

Anyway, I was out in the fields, and it was well past the midday hour. I was starving, and more than a little overheated, so we were on our way to a local inn for a bit of food and rest. Just as I was at my most irritable, these farmers’ wives show up, shrilly demanding judgment in a case of theirs. I’d become known for making those on-the-spot decisions. I’d thought it was an efficient use of government resources—as long as I was out with the people, I could save them the trouble of complicated procedures with the courts—but I’d never regretted taking up the practice as heartily as I did in this moment.

The case was like this: one farmer’s horse had recently given birth, and the foal had wandered away from its mother and onto the neighbor’s property, where it laid down underneath an ox that was at pasture, and the second farmer thought this gave him a right to keep it. There were questions of fences and boundaries and who-owed-who for different trades going back at least a couple of decades—those women were determined to bring every past grievance to light in settling this case.

Well, it didn’t take long for me to lose what little patience I had. I snapped at both women and told them that my decision was that the foal could very well stay where it was.

Not my most reasoned decision, but it wasn’t totally baseless. I had common law going back centuries that supported such a ruling. Possession is nine-tenths of the law and all. It wasn't as though a single foal was worth so much fuss. I went off to my meal and thought that was the end of it.

I’d forgotten all about it by the time I returned to the same village the next week. My man and I were crossing the bridge leading into the town when we found the road covered by a fishing net. An old man sat by the side of the road, shaking and casting the net just as if he were laying it out for a catch.

“What do you think you’re doing, obstructing a public road like this?” I asked him.

The man smiled genially at me and replied, “Fishing, majesty.”

I thought perhaps the man had a touch of sunstroke, so I was really rather kind when I explained to him how impossible it was to catch fish in the roadway.

The man just replied, “It’s no more impossible than an ox giving birth to a foal, majesty.”

He said it like he’d been coached, and it didn’t take long for me to learn that my wife was behind it all. The farmer’s wife who’d lost the foal had come to Faith for help, and my wife had advised the farmer to make the scene I’d described.

Oh, was I livid! Instead of coming to me in private to discuss her concerns about the ruling, Faith had made a public spectacle of me. She encouraged my own subjects to mock me! This was what came of making a farm girl into a queen! She’d live in my house and wear my jewels, and all the time she was laughing up her sleeve at me while she incited my citizens to insurrection! Before long, none of my subjects would respect me. I’d lose my crown, and the kingdom would fall to pieces—

I worked myself into a fine frenzy, thinking such things. At the time, I thought myself perfectly reasonable. I had identified a threat to the kingdom’s stability, and I would deal with it. The moment I came home, I found Faith and declared that the marriage was dissolved. “If you prefer to side with the farmers against your own husband,” I told her, “you can go back to your father’s house and live with them!”

It was quite the tantrum. I’m proud to say I’ve never done anything so shameful since.

To my surprise, Faith took it all silently. None of the fire that she showed in defending her father against me. Faith had this way, back then, where she could look at a man and make him feel like an utter fool. At that moment, she made me feel like a monster. I was already beginning to regret what I was doing, but it was buried under so much anger that I barely realized it, and my pride wouldn’t allow me to back down so easily from another decision.

After I said my piece, Faith quietly asked if she was to leave the palace with nothing.

I couldn’t reverse what I’d decided, but I could soften it a bit.

“You may take one keepsake,” I told her. “Take the one thing you love best from our chambers.”

I thought I was clever to make the stipulation. Knowing Faith, she’d have found some way to move the entire palace and count it as a single item. I had no doubt she’d take the most expensive and inconvenient thing she could, but there was nothing in that set of rooms I couldn’t afford to lose.

Or so I thought. No doubt you’re beginning to see that Faith always gets the upper hand in a battle of wits.

I kept my distance that evening—let myself stew in resentment so I couldn’t regret what I’d done. I kept to my library—not this one, the little one upstairs in our suite—trying to distract myself with all manner of books, and getting frustrated when I found I wanted to share pieces of them with Faith. I was downright relieved when a maid came by with a tea tray. I drank my usual three cups so quickly I barely tasted them—and I passed out atop my desk five minutes later.

Yes, Faith had arranged for the tea—and she’d drugged me!

I came to in the pink light of early dawn, my head feeling like it had been run over by a military caravan. My wits were never as slow as they were that morning. I laid stupidly for what felt like hours, wondering why my bed was so narrow and lumpy, and why the walls of the room were so rough and bare, and why those infernal birds were screaming half an inch from my open window.

By the time I had enough strength to sit up, I could see that I was in the bedroom of a farmer’s cottage. Faith was standing by the window, looking out at the sunrise, wearing the dress she’d worn the first day I met her. Her hair was unbound, tumbling in golden waves all the way to her ankles. My heart leapt at the sight—her hair was one of the wonders of the world in those days, and I was so glad to see her when I felt so ill—until I remembered the events of the previous day, and was too confused and ashamed to have room for any other thoughts or feelings.

“Faith?” I asked. “Why are you here? Where am I?”

“My father’s home,” Faith replied, her eyes downcast—I think it’s the only time in her life she was ever bashful. “You told me I could take the one thing I loved best.”

Can I explain to you how my heart leapt at those words? There had never been a mind or a heart like my wife’s! It was like the moment she’d come to save her father—she made me feel a fool and feel glad for the reminder. I’d made the same mistake both times—let my head get in the way of my heart. She never made that mistake, thank heaven, and it saved us both.

Do you have something you want to add, Faith, darling? Don’t pretend I can’t see you lurking in the stacks and laughing at me! I’ll get as sappy as I like! If you think you can do it better, come out in the open and finish this story properly!

Faith

You tell it so beautifully, my darling fool boy, but if you insist—

I was forever grateful Dinah took that tea to Alistair. I couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen the loophole in his words—I was so afraid he’d see my ploy coming and stop me. But his wits were so blessedly dull that day. It was like outwitting a child.

When at last he came to, I was terrified. He had cast me out because I’d outwitted him, and now here I was again, thinking another clever trick would make everything well.

Fortunately, Alistair was marvelous—saw my meaning in an instant. Sometimes he can be almost clever.

After that, what’s there to tell? We made up our quarrel, and then some. Alistair brought me back to the palace in high honors—it was wonderful, the way he praised me and took so much blame on himself.

(You were really rather too hard on yourself, darling—I’d done more than enough to make any man rightfully angry. Taking you to Father’s house was my chance to apologize.)

Alistair paid the farmer for the loss of his foal, paid for the mending of the fence that had led to the trouble in the first place, and straightened out the legal tangles that had the neighbors at each others’ throats.

After that, things returned much to the way they’d been before, except that Alistair was careful never to think himself into such troubles again. We’ve gotten older, and I hope wiser, and between our quarrels and our reconciliations, we’ve grown into quite the wise pair of lovestruck fools. Take heed from it, whenever you marry—it’s good to have a clever spouse, but make sure you have one who’s willing to be the fool every once in a while.

Trust me. It works out for the best.

#the bookshelf progresses #fairy tale retellings #inklingschallenge #four loves fairy tale challenge #four loves fairy tale challenge 2024 #the farmer's clever daughter #theme: eros #story: complete #this one was *so much fun* #i was grinning throughout the brainstorming process #faith and alistair just *loved* telling me their story #and especially in the first scenes i kept stopping just because i was having so much fun with the lines #maybe it's horribly boring to read but as a writing exercise it was fantastic #i love these two so much #i haven't had this much fun since writing last year's epistolary story

[incomingalbatross]

Thoughts on the Corporal Works of Mercy and themes I think they readily link to:

Feed the hungry: hospitality, bounty

Drink to the thirsty: hospitality as well, refreshment

Clothe the naked: reasserting humanity/personhood

Shelter the homeless: opening all one has to others

Visit the sick: giving of oneself to others

Visit the imprisoned: understanding and/or duty

Bury the dead: human dignity, closure, making things right

#fragmentary thoughts but what i've got #inklingschallenge

[inklings-challenge]

Inklings Challenge 2023: Official Announcement

The Event

The Inklings Challenge invites Christian writers to create science fiction and fantasy stories from a Christian worldview. All writers who sign up for the the challenge–by responding to this post or by directly messaging this blog–before October 1st, 2023 will be randomly assigned to one of three teams that are each challenged to write a story that fits at least one of two assigned genres. Writers will also choose at least one of seven Christian themes to inspire their story.

After teams are assigned on October 1, 2023, writers will have until October 21, 2023 to write a science fiction or fantasy story that fits their assigned genre and uses at least one of the Christian themes in the provided list. There is no maximum or minimum word limit, but because of the short time frame, the challenge is focused on short stories.

The Teams

Inspired by a similar challenge between J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis to write, respectively, a time travel story and a space travel story, the Inklings Challenge uses these authors (and G.K. Chesterton) as the inspiration for the teams. Each team is given both a fantasy and a science fiction option, so writers can choose the genre that is most comfortable for them. (However, writers shouldn’t be afraid to use the science fiction option as inspiration for a fantasy story, and vice versa. They can also choose to use both genres in one story, or write multiple stories). Writers may define for themselves which types of stories fit under each genre.

Team Lewis

Portal Fantasy: Stories where someone from the real world explores a new world

Space Travel: Stories about traveling through space or exploring other planets

Team Tolkien

Secondary World Fantasy: Stories that takes place in an imaginary realm that’s completely separate from our world

Time Travel: Stories exploring travel through time

Team Chesterton

Intrusive Fantasy: Stories where the fantastical elements intrude into the real world

Adventure: Stories where characters (usually in our world) travel to exciting locations, face dangers, undertake a mission or quest, etc.

These teams will be assigned at random on October 1st, 2023. Writers are then encouraged to write a story before the deadline on October 21st.

The Themes

To add a Christian flavor to the event, writers are asked choose at least one of seven Christian themes from the list below as inspiration for their stories. This year's themes all explore traditional acts of charity and mercy which Christians are called to do for others in need. Writers may use these themes to inspire any element of their story that they choose.

The seven themes writers may choose from are:

Feed the hungry

Give drink to the thirsty

Clothe the naked

Shelter the homeless

Visit the sick

Visit the imprisoned

Bury the dead

Posting the Stories

Completed stories can be posted to a tumblr blog anytime after the categories are assigned on October 1st. Writers are encouraged to post their stories–whether finished or incomplete–before the deadline on October 21st, but they can post their stories, or the remainders of unfinished stories, after that date.

All stories will be reblogged and archived on the main Inklings Challenge blog. To assist with organization, writers should tag their posts as follows:

Mention the main Challenge blog @inklings-challenge somewhere within the body of the post (which will hopefully alert the Challenge blog).

Tag the story #inklingschallenge, to ensure it shows up in the Challenge tag, and make it more likely that the Challenge blog will find it.

Tag the team that the author is writing for: #team lewis, #team tolkien, or #team chesterton. 

Tag the genre the story falls under: #genre: portal fantasy, #genre: space travel, #genre: secondary world, #genre: time travel, #genre: intrusive fantasy, #genre: adventure

Tag any themes that were used within the story: #theme: food, #theme: drink, #theme: clothing, #theme: shelter, #theme: visiting the sick, #theme: visiting the imprisoned, #theme: burial

Tag the completion status of the story: #story: complete or #story: unfinished

And that’s the Inklings Challenge! Any questions, comments or concerns that aren’t covered there can be sent to this blog, and I’ll do my best to answer them.

#inklingschallenge #inklings challenge 2023 #science fiction #fantasy #writing

[queenlucythevaliant]

Tell Your Dad You Love Him

A retelling of "Meat Loves Salt"/"Cap O'Rushes" for the @inklings-challenge Four Loves event

An old king had three daughters. When his health began to fail, he summoned them, and they came.

Gordonia and Rowan were already waiting in the hallway when Coriander arrived. They were leaned up against the wall opposite the king’s office with an air of affected casualness. “I wonder what the old war horse wants today?” Rowan was saying. “More about next year’s political appointments, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“The older he gets, the more he micromanages,” Gordonia groused fondly. “A thousand dollars says this meeting could’ve been an email.”

They filed in single-file like they’d so often done as children: Gordonia first, then Rowan, and Coriander last of all. The king had placed three chairs in front of his desk all in a row. His daughters murmured their greetings, and one by one they sat down. 

“I have divided everything I have in three,” the king said. “I am old now, and it’s time. Today, I will pass my kingdom on to you, my daughters.”

A short gasp came from Gordonia. None of them could have imagined that their father would give up running his kingdom while he still lived. 

The king went on. “I know you will deal wisely with that which I leave in your care. But before we begin, I have one request.”

“Yes father?” said Rowan.

“Tell me how much you love me.”

An awkward silence fell. Although there was no shortage of love between the king and his daughters, theirs was not a family which spoke of such things. They were rich and blue-blooded: a soldier and the daughters of a soldier, a king and his three court-reared princesses. The royal family had always shown their affection through double meanings and hot cups of coffee.

Gordonia recovered herself first. She leaned forward over the desk and clasped her father’s hands in her own. “Father,” she said, “I love you more than I can say.” A pause. “I don’t think there’s ever been a family so happy in love as we have been. You’re a good dad.”

The old king smiled and patted her hand. “Thank you, Gordonia. We have been very happy, haven’t we? Here is your inheritance. Cherish it, as I cherish you.”

Rowan spoke next; the words came tumbling out.  “Father! There’s not a thing in my life which you didn’t give me, and all the joy in the world beside. Come now, Gordonia, there’s no need to understate the matter. I love you more than—why, more than life itself!”

The king laughed, and rose to embrace his second daughter. “How you delight me, Rowan. All of this will be yours.”

Only Coriander remained. As her sisters had spoken, she’d wrung her hands in her lap, unsure of what to say. Did her father really mean for flattery to be the price of her inheritance? That just wasn’t like him. For all that he was a politician, he’d been a soldier first. He liked it when people told the truth.

When the king’s eyes came to rest on her, Coriander raised her own to meet them. “Do you really want to hear what you already know?” 

“I do.”

She searched for a metaphor that could carry the weight of her love without unnecessary adornment. At last she found one, and nodded, satisfied. “Dad, you’re like—like salt in my food.”

“Like salt?”

“Well—yes.”

The king’s broad shoulders seemed to droop. For a moment, Coriander almost took back her words. Her father was the strongest man in the world, even now, at eighty. She’d watched him argue with foreign rulers and wage wars all her life. Nothing could hurt him. Could he really be upset? 

But no. Coriander held her father’s gaze. She had spoken true. What harm could be in that?

“I don’t know why you’re even here, Cor,” her father said.

Now, Coriander shifted slightly in her seat, unnerved. “What? Father—”

“It would be best if—you should go,” said the old king.

“Father, you can’t really mean–”

“Leave us, Coriander.”

So she left the king’s court that very hour.

 .

It had been a long time since she’d gone anywhere without a chauffeur to drive her, but Coriander’s thoughts were flying apart too fast for her to be afraid. She didn’t know where she would go, but she would make do, and maybe someday her father would puzzle out her metaphor and call her home to him. Coriander had to hope for that, at least. The loss of her inheritance didn’t feel real yet, but her father—how could he not know that she loved him? She’d said it every day.

She’d played in the hall outside that same office as a child. She’d told him her secrets and her fears and sent him pictures on random Tuesdays when they were in different cities just because. She had watched him triumph in conference rooms and on the battlefield and she’d wanted so badly to be like him. 

If her father doubted her love, then maybe he’d never noticed any of it. Maybe the love had been an unnoticed phantasm, a shadow, a song sung to a deaf man. Maybe all that love had been nothing at all.  

A storm was on the horizon, and it reached her just as she made it onto the highway. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled. Rain poured down and flooded the road. Before long, Coriander was hydroplaning. Frantically, she tried to remember what you were supposed to do when that happened. Pump the brakes? She tried. No use. Wasn’t there something different you did if the car had antilock brakes? Or was that for snow? What else, what else–

With a sickening crunch, her car hit the guardrail. No matter. Coriander’s thoughts were all frenzied and distant. She climbed out of the car and just started walking.

Coriander wandered beneath an angry sky on the great white plains of her father’s kingdom. The rain beat down hard, and within seconds she was soaked to the skin. The storm buffeted her long hair around her head. It tangled together into long, matted cords that hung limp down her back. Mud soiled her fine dress and splattered onto her face and hands. There was water in her lungs and it hurt to breathe. Oh, let me die here, Coriander thought. There’s nothing left for me, nothing at all. She kept walking.

 .

When she opened her eyes, Coriander found herself in a dank gray loft. She was lying on a strange feather mattress.

She remained there a while, looking up at the rafters and wondering where she could be. She thought and felt, as it seemed, through a heavy and impenetrable mist; she was aware only of hunger and weakness and a dreadful chill (though she was all wrapped in blankets). She knew that a long time must have passed since she was fully aware, though she had a confused memory of wandering beside the highway in a thunderstorm, slowly going mad because—because— oh, there’d been something terrible in her dreams. Her father, shoulders drooping at his desk, and her sisters happily come into their inheritance, and she cast into exile—

She shuddered and sat up dizzily. “Oh, mercy,” she murmured. She hadn’t been dreaming.

She stumbled out of the loft down a narrow flight of stairs and came into a strange little room with a single window and a few shabby chairs. Still clinging to the rail, she heard a ruckus from nearby and then footsteps. A plump woman came running to her from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron and softly clucking at the state of her guest’s matted, tangled hair.

“Dear, dear,” said the woman. “Here’s my hand, if you’re still unsteady. That’s good, good. Don’t be afraid, child. I’m Katherine, and my husband is Folke. He found you collapsed by the goose-pond night before last. I’m she who dressed you—your fine gown was ruined, I’m afraid. Would you like some breakfast? There’s coffee on the counter, and we’ll have porridge in a minute if you’re patient.”

“Thank you,” Coriander rasped.

“Will you tell me your name, my dear?”

“I have no name. There’s nothing to tell.”

Katherine clicked her tongue. “That’s alright, no need to worry. Folke and I’ve been calling you Rush on account of your poor hair. I don’t know if you’ve seen yourself, but it looks a lot like river rushes. No, don’t get up. Here’s your breakfast, dear.”

There was indeed porridge, as Katherine had promised, served with cream and berries from the garden. Coriander ate hungrily and tasted very little. Then, when she was finished, the goodwife ushered her over to a sofa by the window and put a pillow beneath her head. Coriander thanked her, and promptly fell asleep.

 .

She woke again around noon, with the pounding in her head much subsided. She woke feeling herself again, to visions of her father inches away and the sound of his voice cracking across her name.

Katherine was outside in the garden; Coriander could see her through the clouded window above her. She rose and, upon finding herself still in a borrowed nightgown, wrapped herself in a blanket to venture outside.

“Feeling better?” Katherine was kneeling in a patch of lavender, but she half rose when she heard the cottage door open.

“Much. Thank you, ma’am.

“No thanks necessary. Folke and I are ministers, of a kind. We keep this cottage for lost and wandering souls. You’re free to remain here with us for as long as you need.”

“Oh,” was all Coriander could think to say. 

“You’ve been through a tempest, haven’t you? Are you well enough to tell me where you came from?”

Coriander shifted uncomfortably. “I’m from nowhere,” she said. “I have nothing.”

“You don’t owe me your story, child. I should like to hear it, but it will keep till you’re ready. Now, why don’t you put on some proper clothes and come help me with this weeding.”

 .

Coriander remained at the cottage with Katherine and her husband Folke for a week, then a fortnight. She slept in the loft and rose with the sun to help Folke herd the geese to the pond. After, Coriander would return and see what needed doing around the cottage. She liked helping Katherine in the garden.

The grass turned gold and the geese’s thick winter down began to come in. Coriander’s river-rush hair proved itself unsalvageable. She spent hours trying to untangle it, first with a hairbrush, then with a fine-tooth comb and a bottle of conditioner, and eventually even with honey and olive oil (a home remedy that Folke said his mother used to use). So, at last, Coriander surrendered to the inevitable and gave Katherine permission to cut it off. One night, by the yellow light of the bare bulb that hung over the kitchen table, Katherine draped a towel over Coriander’s shoulders and tufts of gold went falling to the floor all round her.

“I’m here because I failed at love,” she managed to tell the couple at last, when her sorrows began to feel more distant. “I loved my father, and he knew it not.”

Folke and Katherine still called her Rush. She didn’t correct them. Coriander was the name her parents gave her. It was the name her father had called her when she was six and racing down the stairs to meet him when he came home from Europe, and at ten when she showed him the new song she’d learned to play on the harp. She’d been Cor when she brought her first boyfriend home and Cori the first time she shadowed him at court. Coriander, Coriander, when she came home from college the first time and he’d hugged her with bruising strength. Her strong, powerful father.

As she seasoned a pot of soup for supper, she wondered if he understood yet what she’d meant when she called him salt in her food. 

 .

Coriander had been living with Katherine and Folke for two years, and it was a morning just like any other. She was in the kitchen brewing a pot of coffee when Folke tossed the newspaper on the table and started rummaging in the fridge for his orange juice. “Looks like the old king’s sick again,” he commented casually. Coriander froze.

She raced to the table and seized hold of the paper. There, above the fold, big black letters said, KING ADMITTED TO HOSPITAL FOR EMERGENCY TREATMENT. There was a picture of her father, looking older than she’d ever seen him. Her knees went wobbly and then suddenly the room was sideways.

Strong arms caught her and hauled her upright. “What’s wrong, Rush?”

“What if he dies,” she choked out. “What if he dies and I never got to tell him?”

She looked up into Folke’s puzzled face, and then the whole sorry story came tumbling out.

When she was through, Katherine (who had come downstairs sometime between salt and the storm) took hold of her hand and kissed it. “Bless you, dear,” she said. “I never would have guessed. Maybe it’s best that you’ve both had some time to think things over.”

Katherine shook her head. “But don’t you think…?”

“Yes?”

“Well, don’t you think he should have known that I loved him? I shouldn’t have needed to say it. He’s my father. He’s the king.”

Katherine replied briskly, as though the answer should have been obvious. “He’s only human, child, for all that he might wear a crown; he’s not omniscient. Why didn’t you tell your father what he wanted to hear?”

“I didn’t want to flatter him,” said Coriander. “That was all. I wanted to be right in what I said.”

The goodwife clucked softly. “Oh dear. Don’t you know that sometimes, it’s more important to be kind than to be right?”

.

In her leave-taking, Coriander tried to tell Katherine and Folke how grateful she was to them, but they wouldn’t let her. They bought her a bus ticket and sent her on her way towards King’s City with plenty of provisions. Two days later, Coriander stood on the back steps of one of the palace outbuildings with her little carpetbag clutched in her hands. 

Stuffing down the fear of being recognized, Coriander squared her shoulders and hoped they looked as strong as her father’s. She rapped on the door, and presently a maid came and opened it. The maid glanced Coriander up and down, but after a moment it was clear that her disguise held. With all her long hair shorn off, she must have looked like any other girl come in off the street.

“I’m here about a job,” said Coriander. “My name’s Rush.”

 .

The king's chambers were half-lit when Coriander brought him his supper, dressed in her servants’ apparel. He grunted when she knocked and gestured with a cane towards his bedside table. His hair was snow-white and he was sitting in bed with his work spread across a lap-desk. His motions were very slow.

Coriander wanted to cry, seeing her father like that. Yet somehow, she managed to school her face. Like he would, she kept telling herself. Stoically, she put down the supper tray, then stepped back out into the hallway. 

It was several minutes more before the king was ready to eat. Coriander heard papers being shuffled, probably filed in those same manilla folders her father had always used. In the hall, Coriander felt the seconds lengthen. She steeled herself for the moment she knew was coming, when the king would call out in irritation, “Girl! What's the matter with my food? Why hasn’t it got any taste?”

When that moment came, all would be made right. Coriander would go into the room and taste his food. “Why,” she would say, with a look of complete innocence, “It seems the kitchen forgot to salt it!” She imagined how her father’s face would change when he finally understood. My daughter always loved me, he would say. 

Soon, soon. It would happen soon. Any second now. 

The moment never came. Instead, the floor creaked, followed by the rough sound of a cane striking the floor. The door opened, and then the king was there, his mighty shoulders shaking. “Coriander,” he whispered. 

“Dad. You know me?”

“Of course.”

“Then you understand now?”

The king’s wrinkled brow knit. “Understand about the salt? Of course, I do. It wasn't such a clever riddle. There was surely no need to ruin my supper with a demonstration.”

Coriander gaped at him. She'd expected questions, explanations, maybe apologies for sending her away. She'd never imagined this.

She wanted very badly to seize her father and demand answers, but then she looked, really looked, at the way he was leaning on his cane. The king was barely upright; his white head was bent low. Her questions would hold until she'd helped her father back into his room. 

“If you knew what I meant–by saying you were like salt in my food– then why did you tell me to go?” she asked once they were situated back in the royal quarters. 

Idly, the king picked at his unseasoned food. “I shouldn’t have done that. Forgive me, Coriander. My anger and hurt got the better of me, and it has brought me much grief. I never expected you to stay away for so long.”

Coriander nodded slowly. Her father's words had always carried such fierce authority. She'd never thought to question if he really meant what he’d said to her. 

“As for the salt,” continued the king, "Is it so wrong that an old man should want to hear his daughters say ‘I love you' before he dies?” 

Coriander rolled the words around in her head, trying to make sense of them. Then, with a sudden mewling sound from her throat, she managed to say, “That's really all you wanted?”  

“That's all. I am old, Cor, and we've spoken too little of love in our house.” He took another bite of his unsalted supper. His hand shook. “That was my failing, I suppose. Perhaps if I’d said it, you girls would have thought to say it back.”

“But father!” gasped Coriander, “That’s not right. We've always known we loved one another! We've shown it a thousand ways. Why, I've spent the last year cataloging them in my head, and I've still not even scratched the surface!”

The king sighed. “Perhaps you will understand when your time comes. I knew, and yet I didn't. What can you really call a thing you’ve never named? How do you know it exists? Perhaps all the love I thought I knew was only a figment.”

“But that’s what I’ve been afraid of all this time,” Coriander bit back. “How could you doubt? If it was real at all– how could you doubt?”

The king’s weathered face grew still. His eyes fell shut and he squeezed them. “Death is close to me, child. A small measure of reassurance is not so very much to ask.”

.

Coriander slept in her old rooms that night. None of it had changed. When she woke the next morning, for a moment she remembered nothing of the last two years. 

She breakfasted in the garden with her father, who came down the steps in a chair-lift. “Coriander,” he murmured. “I half-thought I dreamed you last night.”

“I’m here, Dad,” she replied. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Slowly, the king reached out with one withered hand and caressed Coriander's cheek. Then, his fingers drifted up to what remained of her hair. He ruffled it, then gently tugged on a tuft the way he'd used to playfully tug her long braid when she was a girl. 

“I love you,” he said.

“That was always an I love you, wasn’t it?” replied Coriander. “My hair.”

The king nodded. “Yes, I think it was.”

So Coriander reached out and gently tugged the white hairs of his beard. “You too,” she whispered.

.

“Why salt?” The king was sitting by the fire in his rooms wrapped in two blankets. Coriander was with him, enduring the sweltering heat of the room without complaint. 

She frowned. “You like honesty. We have that in common. I was trying to be honest–accurate–to avoid false flattery.”

The king tugged at the outer blanket, saying nothing. His lips thinned and his eyes dropped to his lap. Coriander wished they wouldn’t. She wished they would hold to hers, steely and ready for combat as they always used to be.

“Would it really have been false?” the king said at last. “Was there no other honest way to say it? Only salt?”

Coriander wanted to deny it, to give speech to the depth and breadth of her love, but once again words failed her. “It was my fault,” she said. “I didn’t know how to heave my heart into my throat.” She still didn’t, for all she wanted to. 

.

When the doctor left, the king was almost too tired to talk. His words came slowly, slurred at the edges and disconnected, like drops of water from a leaky faucet. 

Still, Coriander could tell that he had something to say. She waited patiently as his lips and tongue struggled to form the words. “Love you… so… much… You… and… your sisters… Don’t… worry… if you… can’t…say…how…much. I… know.” 

It was all effort. The king sat back when he was finished. Something was still spasming in his throat, and Coriander wanted to cry.

“I’m glad you know,” she said. “I’m glad. But I still want to tell you.”

Love was effort. If her father wanted words, she would give him words. True words. Kind words. She would try… 

“I love you like salt in my food. You're desperately important to me, and you've always been there, and I don't know what I'll do without you. I don’t want to lose you. And I love you like the soil in a garden. Like rain in the spring. Like a hero. You have the strongest shoulders of anyone I know, and all I ever wanted was to be like you…”

A warm smile spread across the old king’s face. His eyes drifted shut.

#inklingschallenge #theme: storge #story: complete #inklings challenge #leah stories #OKAY. SO #i spend so much time thinking about king lear. i think i've said before that it's my favorite shakespeare play. it is not close #and one of the hills i will die on is that cordelia was not in the right when she refused to flatter her dad #like. obviously he's definitely not in the right either. the love test was a screwed up way to make sure his kids loved him #he shouldn't have tied their inheritances into it. he DEFINITELY shouldn't have kicked cordelia out when she refused to play #but like. Cordelia. there is no good reason not to tell your elderly dad how much you love him #and okay obviously lear is my starting point but the same applies to the meat loves salt princess #your dad wants you to tell him you love him. there is no good reason to turn it into a riddle. you had other options #and honestly it kinda bothers me when people read cordelia/the princess as though she's perfectly virtuous #she's very human and definitely beats out the cruel sisters but she's definitely not aspirational. she's not to be emulated #at the end of the day both the fairytale and the play are about failures in storge #at happens when it's there and you can't tell. when it's not and you think it is. when you think you know someone's heart and you just don' #hey! that's a thing that happens all the time between parents and children. especially loving past each other and speaking different langua #so the challenge i set myself with this story was: can i retell the fairytale in such a way that the princess is unambiguously in the wrong #and in service of that the king has to get softened so his errors don't overshadow hers #anyway. thank you for coming to my TED talk #i've been thinking about this story since the challenge was announced but i wrote the whole thing last night after the super bowl #got it in under the wire! yay! #also! the whole 'modern setting that conflicts with the fairytale language' is supposed to be in the style of modern shakespeare adaptation #no idea if it worked but i had a lot of fun with it #pontifications and creations

[taleweaver-ramblings]

Inklings Challenge 2023: The Last Immortal of Evitra

'Tis the deadline day for the Inklings Challenge (@inklings-challenge), and I have not finished my story, but today is also Ren Faire day, and I will therefore not be able to finish today . . . but it's a long story that I'll have to post in multiple parts anyway, so have part one now, and I'll post the rest over the next week.

Also, in classic Taleweaver fashion, this is a fairy tale retelling. Which fairy tale should be fairly obvious. It is not, however, a romance.

Unedited; please be nice about typos.

~~~~~

The Last Immortal of Evitra, Part 1

Anatole Bérenger Judicaël Télesphore Corentin, lord of Blackrose Manor, last immortal of Evitra, woke to the sound of a child crying.

He let out a quiet growl as he reoriented himself to his surroundings. He’d dozed off in his study, it seemed. The last he remembered, the sun had been just at the top edge of the tall windows. Now it was gone, and the whole room was drenched in black shadows — though, of course, shadows had hidden nothing from him for the last four hundred years.

Anatole stirred and stretched, tracing the sound down the threads of magic that carried it. The child wasn’t within the manor house itself, thankfully, but it was concerningly close. Behind the stables, if Anatole read the magic aright. What it was doing there, he could guess, and the thought made him growl again. It had been a long, long time since small boys dared their friends to creep up to his home and spend ten minutes within his gates. If the practice was starting up again . . . well. It might require him to go down to the town again for the first time in decades.

Unless, of course, he could put a stop to it now. Anatole took his cloak from its hook by the door and swept it around his shoulders. Then he stalked from his study, through the halls to a side door, and out into the night.

By the time he found the child, it had stopped crying and moved inside the stables. There were no horses there anymore, nor even any hay — Anatole had no need for such things these days. But in the back, in a corner of the very last stall, there was a small boy, curled up and shivering with his eyes shut and hands balled into the ragged sleeves of his much-mended shirt.

Anatole stepped into the stall, making sure to leave space in the doorway, and growled again, low and menacing. “Boy. Leave my home or face the consequences.”

The boy startled, and his eyes flew open. Anatole knew well what the boy saw. His cursed form was a work of art, he had to admit — curving horns and red eyes and sharp fangs and claws all sharp and distinct and gleaming even without light, and the rest of him a hulking beast of shadows with just enough substance to resolve into one’s worst nightmares. It was a form to make the bravest of men turn and run.

 But rather than fleeing, the boy pressed himself more firmly into his corner. “No. I’m not scared of you, demon.” His voice strongly suggested otherwise. “Oúte o thánatos, oúte i zoí, oúte ángeloi, oúte igemoníes, oúte oi dynámas —”

“Oúte oi dynámeis,” Anatole snapped. “If you’re going to threaten demons with the Holy Writ, boy, you’d better say it correctly. Fortunately for you, I am not a demon. But I am a monster.” He bared his teeth further and growled again. “Now, begone. Go home.”

“Don’t have a home.” The boy’s hands scrabbled on the floor as if searching for a crack or crevice to hold onto. “You’ve got the whole house and all the land. You can spare a corner for the night.”

“If you have no home, then get yourself to the orphanage. I understand that’s what it’s there for.” Anatole pointed out the door. “Go.”

“Won’t.” The boy, finding no handholds, crossed his arms and shut his eyes. “Go away, monster. You’re probably a bad dream anyway.”

How dare the boy defy him! How dare he!

Anatole felt the enchantments woven into every inch of the estate swell in response to his wrath. They didn’t anticipate his need the way they once would have — the curse ensured that — but they would answer swift enough if he called upon them. He could have this boy ejected and back on the road in moments, and in the morning he could add another layer of spellwork to more effectively discourage trespassers.

But it was full night, the town was well over a mile away, and there were wolves in these woods. Sending the boy out on his own would be a shade too close to outright murder for Anatole’s taste. So, with a sigh, he reached down, grabbed the boy, and slung him over his shoulder. Then he turned and trudged back towards the main house.

The boy thrashed and struggled to get free. “Let me go! Put me down, monster!”

“No.” Anatole shoved open the side door, stepped through, and then paused to lock it behind them. “If you’re spending the night on my estate, you’ll do it where I can keep an eye on you.”

The boy continued to wriggle and protest as Anatole made his way swiftly to one of the smaller guest chambers. There, with much relief, he dropped the boy onto the couch. No dust rose — cleaning spells were child’s play, and Anatole had spent his first week of isolation laying multiple in every room. But somehow, the cushions still managed to let off an air of long disuse.

Anatole took a step back. “You’ll sleep here and then leave in the morning.” Now that he’d brought the boy inside, the long-practiced rules of hospitality gripped him like an instinct. “Are you hungry?”

The boy eyed him with suspicion, but gave a tight little nod. Anatole shut his eyes, probing his awareness of the house to check what he had to offer. Apples, cold turkey left from his dinner, cheese — that would do. A few commands and a plate appeared on the low table beside the couch, along with a sturdy mug of water. Anatole opened his eyes again. “Eat.”

The boy poked at the apple suspiciously — rude of him, as Anatole had even gone to the trouble of having it sliced. “Is this fairy food?”

“I have no interest in trapping you in my home.” Anatole resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I summoned it by magic, but the food is real.”

The boy picked up an apple slice, tasted it, and seemed to approve. “Are you planning to eat me?”

“There’s not enough meat on your bones to be worth the effort.” Anatole turned. “Eat, sleep, and be gone in the morning. I will come to this room at ten o’clock, and if you are not gone, I will remove you myself — and should you return, I may rethink eating you.” He waited to hear no further protests, but rather stalked out of the room, shutting the door behind him. As an afterthought, he locked it, laying a small spell so it would unlock again only after the boy had slept, and sent a command through the estate to close and lock all other doors and to only let them open at his own touch, or if they were necessary to let the boy out in the morning. With that, he made his way to his own bed and fell into a light slumber.

At half-past seven the next morning, he roused as he sensed the boy scurrying out the same side door they’d entered through the night before. Anatole remained awake until he felt the boy vanish off the edge of the estate. Then, satisfied, he drifted back into deeper sleep. He had done his duty; no one could argue that. And now the boy was gone and, with any luck, the threat of being eaten would be enough to keep others away for another hundred years or so.

~~~

Three days passed peacefully, and the fourth dawned cold, grey, and threatening either rain or snow. Anatole had decided some centuries ago that, on such days, resisting the urge to hibernate like the bear he somewhat resembled was far more trouble than it was worth. So, he spent most of the day in the library, alternately napping and listening as a speaker-spell read a book to him, stirring only when hunger made it necessary to summon a meal.

He was just waking from one of these naps when he felt a clumsy tug on the estate’s magic. Immediately, he shook himself, reaching out to see who or what dared try to use his power.

Once again, there was a child at the other end of the disturbance. The same one as before, if Anatole wasn’t mistaken. And there was another with him, smaller than he. Anatole growled, extracting himself from his blankets. Apparently, he’d been too kind to the boy last time. He would not make the same mistake again.

Outside, the sky had resolved into a storm of wind and driving rain and occasional flashes of lightning. Anatole trudged onward all the same, following the periodic tugs in his web of enchantment. A curse and a pox on the boy for choosing this day of all days to come back! And he was further from the main house this time, all the way out in the gamekeeper’s cottage — even longer disused than the rest of the estate’s outbuildings.

The door was locked, but it opened at his touch. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he swept inside, drawing himself up to his full height so he nearly touched the ceiling. “I told you not to return.”

The boy — indeed the same one as last time — looked up with wide eyes. He scrambled to his feet, darting in front of the other child. “What d’you care? You’ve got all this space and no one to live in it. We’re not hurting anything. I didn’t come anywhere near your house this time.”

“I care very much when someone trespasses on my property and tries to use my power for his own.” Anatole peered past the boy at the second child: a little girl, perhaps half the boy’s age, yellow-haired and thin-cheeked. “And you should know better than to wander into a monster’s den.”

“There’s monsters everywhere. You aren’t special.” The boy glanced behind him, and his shoulders sagged a little. “One night, Seigneur, please. Then we’ll leave. I promise. We’ll leave and we won’t come back.”

Anatole considered — but the rain and wind outside left him no choice. “I will hold you to that promise.” He turned. “Come.”

The two followed, straggling along behind him, the boy carrying a small bundle on his shoulder and helping the girl along with his free hand. However, after ten minutes, in which Anatole had to stop and wait five separate times for the children to catch up, he turned and simply scooped up both, ignoring their panicked protests. They were light as feathers, both of them — lighter than they ought to be, but perhaps that was merely the greater strength of his current form. Or perhaps he was misremembering. It had been many, many centuries since he’d had reason to carry a child.

He didn’t set the two back down until he’d reached the small guest room where he’d let the boy stay last time. There, he deposited both children onto the couch and once again summoned a platter of food: two bowls of the thick rabbit stew he’d started earlier that day for his dinner, cold flatbread rounds left from lunch, soft cheese, and juicy pears. This time, he very deliberately chose to materialize it on the table by the fireplace. “The food will stay warm until you eat it, at which point you will take care not to make a mess. You will remain in this room, the adjoining one, or the connected bathing chamber until after dawn tomorrow, and you will leave no later than ten o’clock. At no point will you disturb me. Is this understood?”

The girl just stared, but the boy nodded. “I understand. We’ll do as you say.”

“Good.” Anatole stalked from the room — but, to his surprise, the boy followed him out. “What did I say to you a moment ago?”

“I need to ask you something, sir.” The boy held his head up, dropping his tone. “If you eat one of us, make it me. Not Aimée. I’m the one who brought her here. And can you make sure she goes somewhere aside from the orphanage when you send her away?”

Anatole cast a cold glance at the boy. “The two of you together wouldn’t make as much meat as the rabbit I put in tonight’s stew. You may attend to the girl’s fate yourself when you both leave in the morning.”

“Thank you, Seigneur.” There was a bitter note in the boy’s voice, no doubt at the fact that he had to express gratitude for not being eaten. “We’ll not disturb you.”

He disappeared back into the room, and Anatole strode hastily away, working a belated drying-spell to pull the water from his cloak, clothes, and form. One night more. Then these two would be out of his hair and, with any luck, far, far away.

#story: unfinished #inklingschallenge #inklings challenge #team tolkien #genre: secondary world #(couldn't figure out how to work in both this time) #theme: food #theme: shelter #I actually have more written #but this is the cleanest break #and I want to leave myself a buffer

[griseldabanks]

Maybelle and the Beast

My contribution to the @inklings-challenge Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge. This was my back-up idea for last year, so I was excited to have an excuse to finally write it out! Beauty and the Beast is my favorite fairy tale, and I have a feeling I may revisit this particular version again in the future, because I could definitely turn this into a novel ;) I'll admit to taking a lot of inspiration from Robin McKinley's retellings of this fairy tale.

Maybelle stared at the tall, imposing mahogany door. She felt just as reluctant to open it as if it had been the barred portal to a dungeon—like the cold stone chamber she'd explored early on in her stay here, which she expected had been a dungeon once but was now a wine cellar.

More to stall for time than anything else, Maybelle brushed off her rust red skirt and straightened her collar. It was a nervous habit, but in a way it also served to remind her of why she was here, because of who had given her these clothes. Days, weeks, months in this huge, empty mansion, alone except for one companion. The companion who had slammed this very door not half an hour ago.

Taking a deep breath, Maybelle knocked firmly on the door.

“Go 'way,” a muffled voice growled out to her.

Letting out her breath again in an impatient huff, Maybelle crossed her arms. “Are you still sulking, Agnes?”

“I am not sulking,” the voice insisted sulkily.

“Right. You're lying in bed at three in the afternoon, glaring a hole in the ceiling, for your health.”

After a heavy silence, a loud click told her the key had turned in the hole. Taking that as an invitation, Maybelle opened the door and stepped inside.

The heavy drapes had been pulled closed, leaving the bedroom in a stuffy half-light. The only illumination came from the embers of the fire dying in the fireplace. She could barely even make out the silhouette of a large bulk lying in the huge four-poster. It was like stepping into a sickroom.

Rolling her eyes at the drama of it all, Maybelle closed the door with a snap and made a beeline for the window closest to the fireplace. She pulled the curtains aside, letting a band of lazy afternoon sunlight stretch across the carpet, revealing the twisting patterns of vines and roses. After a moment's consideration, Maybelle decided not to open the curtains of the other window nearest the bed. Best not to annoy Agnes any further with a sunbeam in her eyes. She would probably just wave her hand and make the curtains close, then stick together so Maybelle couldn't open them again. Instead, Maybelle contented herself with throwing the window open and letting in the delicious scents of flowers and the buzzing of bees from the gardens.

“There,” she said, drawing in a deep breath of the fresh smell of spring. “Much better.”

With a grunt, the huge lump on the bed rolled over.

Maybelle walked up to the foot of the bed and stood there with her hands on her hips, just waiting. How strange, to remember how frightened she had been the first time she'd ventured into this room. Or how her knees had nearly given out the first time she'd dared to meet the gaze of the terrible Beast who was to be her captor.

It had been months since she'd ceased to be the Beast, and became instead...simply Agnes.

“Well?” Maybelle said, when it became clear Agnes wasn't about to break the silence. “Aren't we going to at least talk about this?”

The long tail lying on top of the blue bedspread flicked irritably, like a huge cat's. “What's to talk about?” Agnes retorted, her voice grumbling like a motorcar in her massive chest. “Clearly, you don't care what happens to me, as long as you get to go have fun without me.”

Closing her eyes for a moment, Maybelle sent up a silent prayer for patience. “Well, for starters,” she said, her voice coming out more sharply than she'd intended, “you called me an awful lot of horrid names, and I thought perhaps you might want to apologize.”

A long, pregnant pause. Finally, with a long-suffering groan from the bed, Agnes rolled over onto her back, her arms tucked up against her chest almost like a dog waiting for a belly rub. The long, black skirt did little to hide her bowed legs ending in sharp claws, and from this angle, her long saber teeth and curled goat-like horns were no longer hidden in her mountain of pillows.

Agnes sighed in resignation. “Sorry for calling you a selfish, bird-brained floozy.”

Maybelle nodded. “Apology accepted. And...I'm sorry too. For calling you a heartless, hairy pig.”

Their eyes met across the room. Agnes let out a snort, followed by a loud guffaw, and suddenly Maybelle found herself laughing as well. The tight coil of anger and bitterness loosened in her chest as she tipped her head back and let her higher-pitched laughter harmonize with Agnes' deep, hefty chuckles.

Still giggling, Maybelle crossed over and flopped onto the huge bed beside Agnes. She felt so tiny in this bed, like a doll. And yet, even though she was sure Agnes could snap her like a twig if she so desired, Maybelle didn't feel a shred of fear to lie a mere foot away from her.

For a couple minutes, they merely lay there, staring up into the canopy over the four-poster. Maybelle had just realized the stars embroidered there formed constellations and was looking for Orion when Agnes broke the silence.

“You were right, you know.” Her voice was a low, sad rumble like a locomotive rushing past in the night. “I am a pig.”

“Oh, no!” Maybelle raised herself on one elbow, looking over in alarm. “Please, forget those awful things I said. It was very wrong of me to call you that.”

Agnes turned her head aside, but Maybelle thought she caught the sight of a tear glistening in one eye. “You were only speaking the truth. Like you always do. I am heartless. Because I care more about not being alone than I do about you getting a chance to see your family. Even when all you ask is to go to your sister's wedding...I'm too selfish to let you go.”

Slowly, Maybelle lowered herself to her pillow again. She wasn't quite sure what to say, so she spoke slowly, picking her words carefully. “I wasn't thinking of you either. I'm sorry, Agnes. I know...I mean, I can imagine how lonely it must get here, in this huge mansion all alone. But it would only be for the weekend. Just enough to meet Edward and see Adeline off. I'd be back before you could miss me too much.”

“You...would come back?”

Agnes' voice sounded so hesitant and tremulous, Maybelle looked over in surprise, but she couldn't make out her friend's expression past the horn and the unruly mane of hair. “Of course I'll come back. That's part of the deal.”

The silence seemed to congeal between them. Neither of them had mentioned the deal Agnes and Maybelle's father had worked out, not since...Maybelle couldn't even remember. During the past several months, it had become easy to forget how all of this began. When Maybelle had first arrived at the mansion, she'd shut thoughts of home out of her mind as much as possible, to make her dreadful fate a little more bearable. If she weren't constantly thinking of the little cottage or trying to imagine what her father and sisters were up to, perhaps she could carve a small measure of contentment out of her exile. It was a small price to pay for her father's life, after all.

But it had been months since Maybelle had seriously believed that Agnes would have eaten her father. Not after she'd seen the delicate way Agnes handled the gardening tools when she tended to her enchanted rose bushes. Not after the way she'd cradled that finch's body in her enormous hands, huge tears rolling down her hairy face as she muttered spell after spell that fizzled out, unable to bring the tiny animal back to life.

Not after scores upon scores of cozy evenings by the fire, laughing together as Maybelle tried to teach Agnes how to knit with two iron pokers, or taking turns reading from one of the books in the huge library.

For the first time, Maybelle tried to imagine what life must have been like for Agnes in all the years before her father had shown up on the doorstep. Sitting alone in front of a guttering fire. Pacing the dark, dusty hallways, with nothing to hear but the echoes of her own footsteps. Wandering the grounds, able to turn the seasons at a word and the weather at a glance, but with nothing but the birds and bees to listen to her words. A library that magically seemed to provide exactly the book she wanted to read, but all the stories of friendship and adventure only serving to mock her solitude.

“I promise I'll come back,” Maybelle said firmly. “Deal or no deal. I won't leave you alone forever.”

A strange, strangled sound escaped Agnes, quickly disguised in a clearing of her throat. “Well,” she said gruffly, “good. But if you don't come back in three days, I'll die.”

Maybelle rolled her eyes. Always so dramatic.

-----

It was raining when Maybelle returned to the mansion. Since it was midsummer out in the rest of the world, she hadn't thought to pack a coat, so she just ducked her head and hurried up the gravel walk to the great front doors. This wasn't a summer rain, either; the chilly breeze cut right through the thin sleeves of the flower-patterned dress Violette had made for her.

The front doors seemed heavier than usual. Normally, they swung open at the first touch of her hand, but this time Maybelle had to throw her shoulder against one to open it. Perhaps Agnes had left a window open somewhere and there was a draft. Though that seemed strange; surely Agnes would have either closed the window or shifted the weather instead of letting all this cold rain blow in.

Maybelle turned back to glance out the door. It looked like Agnes had fully committed to a dreary late November today. The bare branches of the trees clacked together while the wind howled through them, cold raindrops splashing in puddles that turned the walkways to mud. It made her wonder if the rain had kept up the whole time she'd been away.

Shivering, Maybelle heaved the front door closed again, picked up her bag, and started towards the stairs. “Agnes!” she called, her voice echoing around the huge entryway. “I'm home!”

She was halfway up the stairs, struggling with her free hand to unpin her hair and wring out some of the water, when she realized the lamps were dark. Her feet slowed to a stop in the lush carpeting, and she frowned up at the huge chandelier that hung over the open space. Every time she'd set foot in this hall—or anywhere else in the house, for that matter—candles lit themselves and lamps burst to life. At first, she'd found it frightening, especially when she would walk down a long, straight corridor with the candles flaring up in front of her and winking out behind her, leaving her in a bubble of illumination.

But after all these months, she'd grown used to such things. Doors opening at a touch, lamps lighting on their own, plates of food and cups of tea appearing on tables right when she wanted them, a bath drawn and waiting for her without even the hint of a servant in sight. It was all part of the magic of this place. Agnes' magic.

In the cold darkness and silence, Maybelle suddenly remembered what Agnes had said before her trip. If you don't come back in three days, I'll die.

A chill ran down her spine that had nothing to do with her soaked dress. Surely Agnes had just been exaggerating, the way she so often did. Like that time she'd said she felt like she'd been alone in this mansion for a hundred years. Or when she said she lived under a curse.

But still...where was she? After all the fuss she'd made when Maybelle had first asked to leave, why wasn't she waiting for her? Was she sulking in her room again?

“Agnes!” Maybelle called again, slowly climbing the rest of the stairs. “I'm back! Where are you?”

Nothing but silence to welcome her.

Her footsteps slowed as she reached the top of the stairs and turned to the right, heading for her room. The corridor was wide enough that there wasn't much danger of bumping into things, but it was all so eerie without candles lighting her way. She paused at the corner, where a tall window offered a bit of cold illumination.

Shivering, Maybelle looked out at the darkening grounds, still lashed by the driving rain. The rosebushes looked like they were taking a beating, magic or no magic. Even as she watched, the wind stripped leaves off the branches, and most of the brightly-colored petals were already gone. What on earth was Agnes thinking? Even in her most fickle moods, she would usually relent if she realized it would endanger her precious roses....

Maybelle frowned. What was that dark lump in the middle of the path? She hadn't noticed it as she rushed up the front drive, but from this higher vantage point, she could see it clearly. Was it a tarp caught under a wheelbarrow, knocked onto its side in all this wind?

No. Those weren't the handles of a wheelbarrow. They were horns. Two horns, curled like a goat's, rising from a big hairy head lying in the mud....

Dropping everything, Maybelle grabbed her dripping skirts and raced back down the corridor. She hopped up onto the banister as she'd done so many times before and slid expertly to the bottom. Laughing as Agnes tried to imitate her and toppled over the side in a heap.

She ran to the front door and heaved it open, letting go as the howling wind gusted in and slammed it back against the wall. “Last one inside's a rotten egg!”

The rain almost seemed to be falling horizontally, the wind was so strong. Holding up an arm to shield her face, Maybelle splashed along the muddy path as fast as she could. Walking along the path, crunching through the snow, leaving behind a neat row of shoe prints and paw prints side-by-side.

“Agnes!” Maybelle screamed, the wind stealing her voice, as she turned down an aisle between the rosebushes. “You were wrong when you said there was nothing beautiful about you, Agnes. Just look at your roses!”

There she lay, like a mound of dirt, one arm flung around a rosebush as if to protect it, the other curled tight against her chest. She wasn't moving.

“Agnes?” Maybelle dropped to her knees in a puddle by Agnes' side. Throwing her weight against Agnes' huge shoulder, she managed to roll her onto her back. But how would she ever drag her up into the house?

A weak groan escaped Agnes' lips, and her eyelids fluttered, then slid open. “May...belle?”

Hot tears stung Maybelle's eyes. “Thank goodness!” she cried, grasping Agnes' hand in both of hers. “I thought you were....”

Agnes slowly opened her hand, and Maybelle saw that it was cupped around a small, bedraggled red rose. Most of the petals were gone, and those that remained looked wilted.

“Last one,” Agnes grunted. “Not much...time now.”

“It's all right,” Maybelle said, trying to give her an encouraging smile. “We can replant. Once you're feeling a little stronger, maybe you can turn the weather back to spring and—“

“No.” A shudder ran through Agnes' whole body, and her face twisted in a horrible grimace of pain. “No starting over. No...No use.”

“What are you talking about?” Maybelle patted her friend's hand. “Of course we can start over. We can always start over.”

“But...we sh-shouldn't.” Agnes' voice grew fainter by the minute, and Maybelle had to lean closer to hear. “Just...go back home...Maybelle.”

Icy fingers of dread closed around Maybelle's heart. “What? No! I made a promise, remember? I'm to stay here in my father's place—“

“I release you.” Her big amber eyes rolled to meet Maybelle's, bloodshot and exhausted, but crystal clear. “It was...wrong. I...was wrong. To make you stay...against your will. So...I...re...lease...you....”

With that final whisper, her eyes slid closed, and her head lolled back onto the ground. A shiver, like a tiny electric pulse, ran through Maybelle's whole body, and she knew that some sort of spell had just ended.

“No, Agnes!” Frantically, Maybelle chafed Agnes' hands, patted her cheeks, loosened her collar. “Agnes, you don't understand! I'm not here against my will! We're friends, Agnes! I want to be here!”

The huge beast didn't move. This wasn't like the times Agnes sulked and refused to talk to Maybelle. She couldn't even tell if Agnes was breathing anymore.

Desperate to do something, Maybelle tried to heave Agnes into her arms, but the most she could manage was to cradle Agnes' head in her lap. Tears mingled with rainwater on her furry cheeks.

What if she were dead already? What would Maybelle do then? Go back to her family? But there would be no more strolling through the gardens in the evening, no more reading by firelight, no more long conversations or teaching each other games or trying to braid each other's hair or teaching Agnes how to dance or listening to her wonderful singing voice or laughing at each other's silly jokes or....

“Don't be stupid, Agnes!” Maybelle sobbed. “You're my best friend. The best friend I've ever had. No one knows me like you do. No one cares like you do. If I knew this would happen to you, I never would have gone away.”

Maybelle rested her cheek against Agnes' forehead, in between the horns, and rocked back and forth, holding her best friend close. “I'm sorry, Agnes...I'm sorry.... I never wanted to lose you. I just...I just wanted to keep being your friend. Always. Forever.” A painful sob ripped out of her chest as her best friend's body lay cold and still in her arms. “I love you, Agnes.”

Faintly, Maybelle was aware that the wind had died down, and raindrops no longer pounded down on her head and shoulders. The realization of what that meant only made her cry harder. Her fingers tangled in Agnes' mane of hair as she mumbled over and over again, “I love you, Agnes...I love you....”

“Love you too.”

Maybelle looked up at those gruff words, then gave a great start as she realized she held a complete stranger in her arms.

The woman she held was large, with broad shoulders and a squarish jaw. She was no great beauty, especially not with disheveled brown hair straggling all over the place or her body swimming in Agnes' oversized dress, but there was something comfortable and familiar about....

Wait. “Ag...nes?”

Moving stiffly, the woman held her own hands up in front of her face and turned them around, as if she'd never seen them before. Slowly, a wondering smile crossed her face, and Maybelle noticed this woman's front teeth protruded slightly.

Not too unlike the huge fangs that had curved from Agnes' lips.

Then she raised her eyes to meet Maybelle's, and there was no doubt. Those were the amber-brown eyes of her best friend.

“Agnes!”

They threw their arms around each other, and they were crying, but they were also laughing, and Agnes was trying to tell her something about a fairy and a flower and a curse, but Maybelle was too distracted by how small Agnes was in her arms. How high Agnes' voice was.

“How?” she gulped, pulling back and holding Agnes at arms' length. “How did this happen?”

“It's all you, silly!” Agnes laughed, swiping her sleeve over Maybelle's cheeks to dry her tears. She still moved carefully, as if afraid of accidentally swiping Maybelle with nonexistent claws. “True love breaks any curse, don't you know that?”

“True love?” Maybelle sniffled.

Tears spilled out of Agnes' beautiful amber eyes and rolled down her round, rosy cheeks. “What love could be truer than this?” she said with a shaky laugh. “That you'd still want to be friends with someone as beastly as me?”

“Oh, you're not as bad as all that.”

Agnes raised her eyebrows. “Really? Even after all those nasty things I said to scare you on your first night here? Or when I threw a chair at you and screamed when you went exploring in the west wing?”

“Well....” Maybelle didn't know how to deny it without completely lying, so she hastily changed the subject. “I don't regret anything, though. I don't regret coming here. I don't regret deciding to be your friend.”

With a watery chuckle, Agnes rested their foreheads together. “I don't regret it either.”

#inklingschallenge #four loves fairy tale challenge #theme: philia #story: complete #beauty and the beast #fairy tales #set in vaguely-victorian era #maybelle #agnes

[confetti-cat]

Twelve, Thirteen, and One

Words: 6k

Rating: G

Themes: Friendship, Self-Giving Love

(Written for the Four Loves Fairytale Retelling Challenge over at the @inklings-challenge! A Cinderella retelling feat. curious critters and a lot of friendship.)

When the clock chimes midnight on that third evening, thirteen creatures look to the girl who showed them all kindness.

—

It’s hours after dark, again, and the human girl still sleeps in the ashes.

The mice notice this—though it happens so often that they’ve ceased to pay attention to her. She smells like everything else in the hearth: ashy and overworked, tinged with the faint smell of herbs from the kitchen.

When she moves or shifts in her sleep (uncomfortable sleep—even they can sense the exhaustion in her posture as she sits slumped against the wall, more willing to seep up warmth from the stone than lie cold elsewhere this time of year), they simply scurry around her and continue combing for crumbs and seeds. They’d found a feast of lentils scattered about once, and many other times, the girl had beckoned them softly to her hand, where she’d held a little chunk of brown bread.

Tonight, she has nothing. They don’t mind—though three of them still come to sniff her limp hand where it lies drooped against the side of her tattered dress.

A fourth one places a little clawed hand on the side of her finger, leaning over it to investigate her palm for any sign of food.

When she stirs, it’s to the sensation of a furry brown mouse sitting in her palm.

It can feel the flickering of her muscles as she wakes—feeling slowly returning to her body. To her credit, she cracks her eyes open and merely observes it.

They’re all but tame by now. The Harsh-Mistress and the Shrieking-Girl and the Angry-Girl are to be avoided like the plague never was, but this girl—the Cinder-Girl, they think of her—is gentle and kind.

Even as she shifts a bit and they hear the dull crack of her joints, they’re too busy to mind. Some finding a few buried peas (there were always some peas or lentils still hidden here, if they looked carefully), some giving themselves an impromptu bath to wash off the dust. The one sitting on her hand is doing the latter, fur fluffed up as it scratches one ear and then scrubs tirelessly over its face with both paws.

One looks up from where it’s discovered a stray pea to check her expression.

A warm little smile has crept up her face, weary and dirty and sore as she seems to be. She stays very still in her awkward half-curl against stone, watching the mouse in her hand groom itself. The tender look about her far overwhelms—melts, even—the traces of tension in her tired limbs.

Very slowly, so much so that they really aren’t bothered by it, she raises her spare hand and begins lightly smearing the soot away from her eyes with the back of her wrist.

The mouse in her palm gives her an odd look for the movement, but has discovered her skin is warmer than the cold stone floor or the ash around the dying fire. It pads around in a circle once, then nudges its nose against her calloused skin, settling down for a moment.

The Cinder-Girl has closed her eyes again, and drops her other hand into her lap, slumping further against the wall. Her smile has grown even warmer, if sadder.

They decide she’s quite safe. Very friendly.

—

The old rat makes his rounds at the usual times of night, shuffling through a passage that leads from the ground all the way up to the attic.

When both gold sticks on the clocks’ moonlike faces point upward, there’s a faint chime from the tower-clock downstairs. He used to worry that the sound would rouse the humans. Now, he ignores it and goes about his business.

There’s a great treasury of old straw in the attic. It’s inside a large sack—and while this one doesn’t have corn or wheat like the ones near the kitchen sometimes do, he knows how to chew it open all the same.

The girl sleeps on this sack of straw, though she doesn’t seem to mind what he takes from it. There’s enough more of it to fill a hundred rat’s nests, so he supposes she doesn’t feel the difference.

Tonight, though—perhaps he’s a bit too loud in his chewing and tearing. The girl sits up slowly in bed, and he stiffens, teeth still sunk into a bit of the fabric.

“Oh.” says the girl. She smiles—and though the expression should seem threatening, all pulled mouth-corners and teeth, he feels the gentleness in her posture and wonders at novel thoughts of differing body languages. “Hello again. Do you need more straw?”

He isn’t sure what the sounds mean, but they remind him of the soft whuffles and squeaks of his siblings when they were small. Inquisitive, unafraid. Not direct or confrontational.

She’s seemed safe enough so far—almost like the woman in white and silver-gold he’s seen here sometimes, marveling at his own confidence in her safeness—so he does what signals not-afraid the best to his kind. He glances her over, twitches his whiskers briefly, and goes back to what he was doing.

Some of the straw is too big and rough, some too small and fine. He scratches a bundle out into a pile so he can shuffle through it. It’s true he doesn’t need much, but the chill of winter hasn’t left the world yet.

The girl laughs. The sound is soft and small. It reminds him again of young, friendly, peaceable.

“Take as much as you need,” she whispers. Her movements are unassuming when she reaches for something on the old wooden crate she uses as a bedside table. With something in hand, she leans against the wall her bed is a tunnel’s-width from, and offers him what she holds. “Would you like this?”

He peers at it in the dark, whiskers twitching. His eyesight isn’t the best, so he finds himself drawing closer to sniff at what she has.

It’s a feather. White and curled a bit, like the goose-down he’d once pulled out the corner of a spare pillow long ago. Soft and long, fluffy and warm.

He touches his nose to it—then, with a glance upward at her softly-smiling face, takes it in his teeth.

It makes him look like he has a mustache, and is a bit too big to fit through his hole easily. The girl giggles behind him as he leaves.

—

There’s a human out in the gardens again. Which is strange—this is a place for lizards, maybe birds and certainly bugs. Not for people, in his opinion. She’s not dressed in venomous bright colors like the other humans often are, but neither does she stay to the manicured garden path the way they do.

She doesn’t smell like unnatural rotten roses, either. A welcome change from having to dart for cover at not just the motions, but the stenches that accompany the others that appear from time to time.

This human is behind the border-shubs, beating an ornate rug that hangs over the fence with a home-tied broom. Huge clouds of dust shake from it with each hit, settling in a thin film on the leaves and grass around her.

She stops for a moment to press her palm to her forehead, then turns over her shoulder and coughs into her arm.

When she begins again, it’s with a sharp WHOP.

He jumps a bit, but only on instinct. However—

A few feet from where he settles back atop the sunning-rock, there’s a scuffle and a sharp splash. Then thrashing—waster swashing about with little churns and splishes.

It’s not the way of lizards to think of doing anything when one falls into the water. There were several basins for fish and to catch water off the roof for the garden—they simply had to not fall into them, not drown. There was little recourse for if they did. What could another lizard do, really? Fall in after them? Best to let them try to climb out if they could.

The girl hears the splashing. She stares at the water pot for a moment.

Then, she places her broom carefully on the ground and comes closer.

Closer. His heart speeds up. He skitters to the safety of a plant with low-hanging leaves—

—and then watches as she walks past his hiding place, peers into the basin, and reaches in.

Her hand comes up dripping wet, a very startled lizard still as a statue clinging to her fingers.

“Are you the same one I always find here?” she asks with a chiding little smile. “Or do all of you enjoy swimming?”

When she places her hand on the soft spring grass, the lizard darts off of it and into the underbrush. It doesn’t go as far as it could, though—something about this girl makes both of them want to stand still and wait for what she’ll do next.

The girl just watches it go. She lets out a strange sound—a weary laugh, perhaps—and turns back to her peculiar chore.

—

A song trails through the old house—under the floorboards—through the walls—into the garden, beneath the undergrowth—and lures them out of hiding.

It isn’t an audible song, not like that of the birds in the summer trees or the ashen-girl murmuring beautiful sounds to herself in the lonely hours. This one was silent. Yet, it reached deep down into their souls and said come out, please—the one who helped you needs your help.

It didn’t require any thought, no more than eat or sleep or run did.

In chains of silver and grey, all the mice who hear it converge, twenty-four tiny feet pattering along the wood in the walls. The rat joins them, but they are not afraid.

When they emerge from a hole out into the open air, the soft slip-slap of more feet surround them. Six lizards scurry from the bushes, some gleaming wet as if they’d just escaped the water trough or run through the birdbath themselves.

As a strange little hoard, they approach the kind girl. Beside her is a tall woman wearing white and silver and gold.

The girl—holding a large, round pumpkin—looks surprised to see them here. The woman is smiling.

“Set the pumpkin on the drive,” the woman says, a soft gleam in her eye. “The rest of you, line up, please.”

Bemused, but with a heartbeat fast enough for them to notice, the girl gingerly places the pumpkin on the stone of the drive. It’s natural for them, somehow, to follow—the mice line in pairs in front of it, the rat hops on top of it, and the lizards all stand beside.

“What are they doing?” asks the girl—and there’s curiosity and gingerness in her tone, like she doesn’t believe such a sight is wrong, but is worried it might be.

The older woman laughs kindly, and a feeling like blinking hard comes over the world.

It’s then—then, in that flash of darkness that turns to dazzling light, that something about them changes.

“Oh!” exclaims the girl, and they open their eyes. “Oh! They’re—“

They’re different.

The mice aren’t mice at all—and suddenly they wonder if they ever were, or if it was an odd dream.

They’re horses, steel grey and sleek-haired with with silky brown manes and tails. Their harnesses are ornate and stylish, their hooves polished and dark.

Instead of a rat, there’s a stout man in fine livery, with whiskers dark and smart as ever. He wears a fine cap with a familiar white feather, and the gleam in his eye is surprised.

“Well,” he says, examining his hands and the cuffs of his sleeves, “I suppose I won’t be wanting for adventure now.”

Instead of six lizards, six footmen stand at attention, their ivory jackets shining in the late afternoon sun.

The girl herself is different, though she’s still human—her hair is done up beautifully in the latest fashion, and instead of tattered grey she wears a shimmering dress of lovely pale green, inlaid with a design that only on close inspection is flowers.

“They are under your charge, now,” says the woman in white, stepping back and folding her hands together. “It is your responsibility to return before the clock strikes midnight—when that happens, the magic will be undone. Understood?”

“Yes,” says the girl breathlessly. She stares at them as if she’s been given the most priceless gift in all the world. “Oh, thank you.”

—

The castle is decorated brilliantly. Flowery garlands hang from every parapet, beautiful vines sprawling against walls and over archways as they climb. Dozens of picturesque lanterns hang from the walls, ready to be lit once the sky grows dark.

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen the castle,” the girl says, standing one step out of the carriage and looking so awed she seems happy not to go any further. “Father and I used to drive by it sometimes. But it never looked so lovely as this.”

“Shall we accompany you in, milady?” asks one of the footmen. They’re all nearly identical, though this one has freckles where he once had dark flecks in his scales.

She hesitates for only a moment, looking up at the pinnacles of the castle towers. Then, she shakes her head, and turns to look at them all with a smile like the sun.

“I think I’ll go in myself,” she says. “I’m not sure what is custom. But thank you—thank you so very much.”

And so they watch her go—stepping carefully in her radiant dress that looked lovelier than any queen’s.

Though she was not royal, it seemed there was no doubt in anyone’s minds that she was. The guards posted at the door opened it for her without question.

With a last smile over her shoulder, she stepped inside.

—

He's straightening the horses' trappings for the fifth time when the doors to the castle open, and out hurries a figure. It takes him a moment to recognize her, garbed in rich fabrics and cloaked in shadows, but it's the girl, rushing out to the gilded carriage. A footman steps forward and offers her a hand, which she accepts gratefully as she steps up into the seat.

“Enjoyable evening, milady?” asks the coachman. His whiskers are raised above the corners of his mouth, and his twinkling eyes crinkle at the edges.

“Yes, quite, thank you!” she breathes in a single huff. She smooths her dress the best she can before looking at him with some urgency. “The clock just struck quarter till—will you be able to get us home?”

The gentle woman in white had said they only would remain in such states until midnight. How long was it until the middle of night? What was a quarter? Surely darkness would last for far more hours than it had already—it couldn’t be close. Yet it seemed as though it must be; the princesslike girl in the carriage sounded worried it would catch them at any moment.

“I will do all I can,” he promises, and with a sharp rap of the reins, they’re off at a swift pace.

They arrive with minutes to spare. He knows this because after she helps him down from the carriage (...wait. That should have been the other way around! He makes mental note for next time: it should be him helping her down. If he can manage it. She’s fast), she takes one of those minutes to show him how his new pocketwatch works.

He’s fascinated already. There’s a part of him that wonders if he’ll remember how to tell time when he’s a rat again—or will this, all of this, be forgotten?

The woman in white is there beside the drive, and she’s already smiling. A knowing gleam lights her eye.

“Well, how was the ball?” she asks, as Cinder-Girl turns to face her with the most elated expression. “I hear the prince is looking for fair maidens. Did he speak with you?”

The girl rushes to grasp the woman’s hands in hers, clasping them gratefully and beaming up at her.

“It was lovely! I’ve never seen anything so lovely,” she all but gushes, her smile brighter and broader than they’d ever seen it. “The castle is beautiful; it feels so alive and warm. And yes, I met the Prince—although hush, he certainly isn’t looking for me—he’s so kind. I very much enjoyed speaking with him. He asked me to dance, too; I had as wonderful a time as he seemed to. Thank you! Thank you dearly.”

The woman laughs gently. It isn’t a laugh one would describe as warm, but neither is it cold in the sense some laughs can be—it's soft and beautiful, almost crystalline.

“That’s wonderful. Now, up to bed! You’ve made it before midnight, but your sisters will be returning soon.”

“Yes! Of course,” she replies eagerly—turning to smile gratefully at coachman and stroke the nearest horses on their noses and shoulders, then curtsy to the footmen. “Thank you all, very much. I could not ask for a more lovely company.”

It’s a strange moment when all of their new hearts swell with warmth and affection for this girl—and then the world darkens and lightens so quickly they feel as though they’ve fallen asleep and woken up.

They’re them again—six mice, six lizards, a rat, and a pumpkin. And a tattered gray dress.

“Please, would you let me go again tomorrow? The ball will last three days. I had such a wonderful time.”

“Come,” the woman said simply, “and place the pumpkin beneath the bushes.”

The woman in white led the way back to the house, followed by an air-footed girl and a train of tiny critters. There was another silent song in the air, and they thought perhaps the girl could hear it too: one that said yes—but get to bed!

—

The second evening, when the door of the house thuds shut and the hoofsteps of the family’s carriage fade out of hearing, the rat peeks out of a hole in the kitchen corner to see the Cinder-Girl leap to her feet.

She leans close to the window and watched for more minutes than he quite understands—or maybe he does; it was good to be sure all cats had left before coming out into the open—and then runs with a spring in her step to the back door near the kitchen.

Ever so faintly, like music, the woman’s laughter echoes faintly from outside. Drawn to it like he had been drawn to the silent song, the rat scurries back through the labyrinth of the walls.

When he hurries out onto the lawn, the mice and lizards are already there, looking up at the two humans expectantly. This time, the Cinder-Girl looks at them and smiles broadly.

“Hello, all. So—how do you do it?” she asks the woman. Her eyes shine with eager curiosity. “I had no idea you could do such a thing. How does it work?”

The woman fixes her with a look of fond mock-sternness. “If I were to explain to you the details of how, I’d have to tell you why and whom, and you’d be here long enough to miss the royal ball.” She waves her hands she speaks. “And then you’d be very much in trouble for knowing far more than you ought.”

The rat misses the girl’s response, because the world blinks again—and now all of them once again are different. Limbs are long and slender, paws are hooves with silver shoes or feet in polished boots.

The mouse-horses mouth at their bits as they glance back at the carriage and the assortment of humans now standing by it. The footmen are dressed in deep navy this time, and the girl wears a dress as blue as the summer sky, adorned with brilliant silver stars.

“Remember—“ says the woman, watching fondly as the Cinder-Girl steps into the carriage in a whorl of beautiful silk. “Return before midnight, before the magic disappears.”

“Yes, Godmother,” she calls, voice even more joyful than the previous night. “Thank you!”

—

The castle is just as glorious as before—and the crowd within it has grown. Noblemen and women, royals and servants, and the prince himself all mill about in the grand ballroom.

He’s unsure of the etiquette, but it seems best for her not to enter alone. Once he escorts her in, the coachman bows and watches for a moment—the crowd is hushed again, taken by her beauty and how important they think her to be—and then returns to the carriage outside.

He isn’t required in the ballroom for much of the night—but he tends to the horses and checks his pocketwatch studiously, everything in him wishing to be the best coachman that ever once was a rat.

Perhaps that wouldn’t be hard. He’d raise the bar, then. The best coachman that ever drove for a princess.

Because that was what she was—or, that was what he heard dozens of hushed whispers about once she’d entered the ball. Every noble and royal and servant saw her and deemed her a grand princess nobody knew from a land far away. The prince himself stared at her in a marveling way that indicated he thought no differently.

It was a thing more wondrous than he had practice thinking. If a mouse could become a horse or a rat could become a coachman, couldn’t a kitchen-girl become a princess?

The answer was yes, it seemed—perhaps in more ways than one.

She had rushed out with surprising grace just before midnight. They took off quickly, and she kept looking back toward the castle door, as if worried—but she was smiling.

“Did you know the Prince is very nice?” she asks once they’re safely home, and she’s stepped down (drat) without help again. The woman in white stands on her same place beside the drive, and when Cinder-Girl sees her, she waves with dainty grace that clearly holds a vibrant energy and sheer thankfulness behind it. “I’ve never known what it felt like to be understood. He thinks like I do.”

“How is that?” asks the woman, quirking an amused brow. “And if I might ask, how do you know?”

“Because he mentions things first.” The girl tries to smother some of the wideness of her smile, but can’t quite do so. “And I've shared his thoughts for a long time. That he loves his father, and thinks oranges and citrons are nice for festivities especially, and that he’s always wanted to go out someday and do something new.”

—

The third evening, the clouds were dense and a few droplets of rain splattered the carriage as they arrived.

“Looks like rain, milady,” said the coachman as she disembarked to stand on water-spotted stone. “If it doesn’t blow by, we’ll come for ye at the steps, if it pleases you.”

“Certainly—thank you,” she replies, all gleaming eyes and barely-smothered smiles. How her excitement to come can increase is beyond them—but she seems more so with each night that passes.

She has hardly turned to head for the door when a smattering of rain drizzles heavily on them all. She flinches slightly, already running her palms over the skirt of her dress to rub out the spots of water.

Her golden dress glisters even in the cloudy light, and doesn’t seem to show the spots much. Still, it’s hardy an ideal thing.

“One of you hold the parasol—quick about it, now—and escort her inside,” the coachman says quickly. The nearest footman jumps into action, hop-reaching into the carriage and falling back down with the umbrella in hand, unfolding it as he lands. “Wait about in case she needs anything.”

The parasol is small and not meant for this sort of weather, but it's enough for the moment. The pair of them dash for the door, the horses chomping and stamping behind them until they’re driven beneath the bows of a huge tree.

The footman knows his duty the way a lizard knows to run from danger. He achieves it the same way—by slipping off to become invisible, melting into the many people who stood against the golden walls.

From there, he watches.

It’s so strange to see the way the prince and their princess gravitate to each other. The prince’s attention seems impossible to drag away from her, though not for many’s lack of trying.

Likewise—more so than he would have thought, though perhaps he’s a bit slow in noticing—her focus is wholly on the prince for long minutes at a time.

Her attention is always divided a bit whenever she admires the interior of the castle, the many people and glamorous dresses in the crowd, the vibrant tables of food. It’s all very new to her, and he’s not certain it doesn’t show. But the Prince seems enamored by her delight in everything—if he thinks it odd, he certainly doesn’t let on.

They talk and laugh and sample fine foods and talk to other guests together, then they turn their heads toward where the musicians are starting up and smile softly when they meet each other’s eyes. The Prince offers a hand, which is accepted and clasped gleefully.

Then, they dance.

Their motions are so smooth and light-footed that many of the crowd forgo dancing, because admiring them is more enjoyable. They’re in-sync, back and forth like slow ripples on a pond. They sometimes look around them—but not often, especially compared to how long they gaze at each other with poorly-veiled, elated smiles.

The night whirls on in flares of gold tulle and maroon velvet, ivory, carnelian, and emerald silks, the crowd a nonstop blur of color.

(Color. New to him, that. Improved vision was wonderful.)

The clock strikes eleven, but there’s still time, and he’s fairly certain he won’t be able to convince the girl to leave anytime before midnight draws near.

He was a lizard until very recently. He’s not the best at judging time, yet. Midnight does draw near, but he’s not sure he understands how near.

The clock doesn’t quite say up-up. So he still has time. When the rain drums ceaselessly outside, he darts out and runs in a well-practiced way to find their carriage.

—

Another of the footmen comes in quickly, having been sent in a rush by the coachman, who had tried to keep his pocketwatch dry just a bit too long. He’s soaking wet from the downpour when he steps close enough to get her attention.

She sees him, notices this, and—with a glimmer of recognition and amusement in her eyes—laughs softly into her hand.

ONE—TWO— the clock starts. His heart speeds up terribly, and his skin feels cold. He suddenly craves a sunny rock.

“Um,” he begins awkwardly. Lizards didn’t have much in the way of a vocal language. He bows quickly, and water drips off his face and hat and onto the floor. “The chimes, milady.”

THREE—FOUR—

Perhaps she thought it was only eleven. Her face pales. “Oh.”

FIVE—SIX—

Like a deer, she leaps from the prince’s side and only manages a stumbling, backward stride as she curtsies in an attempt at a polite goodbye.

“Thank you, I must go—“ she says, and then she’s racing alongside the footman as fast as they both can go. The crowd parts for them just enough, amidst loud murmurs of surprise.

SEVEN—EIGHT—

“Wait!” calls the prince, but they don’t. Which hopefully isn’t grounds for arrest, the footman idly thinks.

They burst through the door and out into the open air.

NINE—TEN—

It has been storming. The rain is crashing down in torrents—the walkways and steps are flooded with a firm rush of water.

She steps in a crevice she couldn’t see, the water washes over her feet, and she stumbles, slipping right out of one shoe. There’s noise at the door behind them, so she doesn’t stop or even hesitate. She runs at a hobble and all but dives through the open carriage door. The awaiting footman quickly closes it, and they’re all grasping quickly to their riding-places at the corners of the vehicle.

ELEVEN—

A flash of lightning coats the horses in white, despite the dark water that’s soaked into their coats, and with a crack of the rains and thunder they take off at a swift run.

There’s shouting behind them—the prince—as people run out and call to the departing princess.

TWELVE.

Mist swallows them up, so thick they can’t hear or see the castle, but the horses know the way.

The castle’s clock tower must have been ever-so-slightly fast. (Does magic tell truer time?) Their escape works for a few thundering strides down the invisible, cloud-drenched road—until true midnight strikes a few moments later.

—

She walks home in the rain and fog, following a white pinprick of light she can guess the source of—all the while carrying a hollow pumpkin full of lizards, with an apron pocket full of mice and a rat perched on her shoulder.

It’s quite the walk.

—

The prince makes a declaration so grand that the mice do not understand it. The rat—a bit different now—tells them most things are that way to mice, but he’s glad to explain.

The prince wants to find the girl who wore the golden slipper left on the steps, he relates. He doesn’t want to ask any other to marry him, he loved her company so.

The mice think that’s a bit silly. Concerning, even. What if he does find her? There won’t be anyone to secretly leave seeds in the ashes or sneak them bread crusts when no humans are looking.

The rat thinks they’re being silly and that they’ve become too dependent on handouts. Back in his day, rodents worked for their food. Chewing open a bag of seed was an honest day’s work for its wages.

Besides, he confides, as he looks again out the peep-hole they’ve discovered in the floor trim of the parlor. You’re being self-interested, if you ask me. Don’t you want our princess to find a good mate, and live somewhere spacious and comfortable, free of human-cats, where she’d finally have plenty to eat?

It’s hard to make a mouse look appropriately chastised, but that question comes close. They shuffle back a bit to let him look out at the strange proceedings in the parlor again.

There are many humans there. The Harsh-Mistress stands tall and rigid at the back of one of the parlor chairs, exchanging curt words with a strange man in fine clothes with a funny hat. Shrieking-Girl and Angry-Girl stand close, scoffing and laughing, looking appalled.

Cinder-Girl sits on the chair that’s been pulled to the middle of the room. She extends her foot toward a strange golden object on a large cushion.

The shoe, the rat notes so the mice can follow. They can’t quite see it from here—poor eyesight and all.

Of course, the girl’s foot fits perfectly well into her own shoe. They all saw that coming.

Evidently, the humans did not. There’s absolute uproar.

“There is no possible way she’s the princess you’re looking for!” declares Harsh-Mistress, her voice full of rage. “She’s a kitchen maid. Nothing royal about her.”

“How dare you!” Angry-Girl rages. “Why does it fit you? Why not us?”

“You sneak!” shrieks none other than Shrieking-Girl. “Mother, she snuck to the ball! She must have used magic, somehow! Princes won’t marry sneaks, will they?”

“I think they might,” says a calm voice from the doorway, and the uproar stops immediately.

The Prince steps in. He stares at Cinder-Girl.

She stares back. Her face is still smudged with soot, and her dress is her old one, gray and tattered. The golden slipper gleams on her foot, having fit as only something molded or magic could.

A blush colors her face beneath the ash and she leaps up to do courtesy. “Your Highness.”

The Prince glances at the messenger-man with the slipper-pillow and the funny hat. The man nods seriously.

The Prince blinks at this, as if he wasn’t really asking anything with his look—it’s already clear he recognizes her—and meets Cinder-Girl’s gaze with a smile. It’s the same half-nervous, half-attemptingly-charming smile as he kept giving her at the ball.

He bows to her and offers a hand. (The rat has to push three mice out of the way to maintain his view.)

“It’s my honor,” he assures her. “Would you do me the great honor of accompanying me to the castle? I’d had a question in mind, but it seems there are—“ he glances at Harsh-Mistress, who looks like a very upset rat in a mousetrap. “—situations we might discuss remedying. You’d be a most welcome guest in my father’s house, if you’d be amenable to it?”

It’s all so much more strange and unusual than anything the creatures of the house are used to seeing. They almost don’t hear it, at first—that silent song.

It grows stronger, though, and they turn their heads toward it with an odd hope in their hearts.

—

The ride to the castle is almost as strange as that prior walk back. The reasons for this are such:

One—their princess is riding in their golden carriage alongside the prince, and their chatter and awkward laughter fills the surrounding spring air. They have a good feeling about the prince, now, if they didn’t already. He can certainly take things in stride, and he is no respecter of persons. He seems just as elated to be by her side as he was at the ball, even with the added surprise of where she'd come from.

Two—they have been transformed again, and the woman in white has asked them a single question: Would you choose to stay this way?

The coachman said yes without a second thought. He’d always wanted life to be more fulfilling, he confided—and this seemed a certain path to achieving that.

The footmen might not have said yes, but there was something to be said for recently-acquired cognition. It seemed—strange, to be human, but the thought of turning back into lizards had the odd feeling of being a poor choice. Baffled by this new instinct, they said yes.

The horses, of course, said things like whuff and nyiiiehuhum, grumph. The woman seemed to understand, though. She touched one horse on the nose and told it it would be the castle’s happiest mouse once the carriage reached its destination. The others, it seemed, enjoyed their new stature.

And three—they are heading toward a castle, where they have all been offered a fine place to live. The Prince explains that he doesn’t wish for such a kind girl to live in such conditions anymore. There’s no talk of anyone marrying—just discussions of rooms and favorite foods and of course, you’ll have the finest chicken pie anytime you’d like and I can’t have others make it for me! Lend me the kitchens and I’ll make some for you; I have a very dear recipe. Perhaps you can help. (Followed in short order by a ...Certainly, but I’d—um, I’d embarrass myself trying to cook. You would teach me? and a gentle laugh that brightened the souls of all who could hear it.)

“If you’d be amenable to it,” she replies—and in clear, if surprised, agreement, the Prince truly, warmly laughs.

“Milady,” the coachman calls down to them. “Your Highness. We’re here.”

The castle stands shining amber-gold in the light of the setting sun. It will be the fourth night they’ve come here—the thirteen of them and the one of her—but midnight, they realize, will not break the spell ever again.

One by one, they disembark from the carriage. If it will stay as it is or turn back into a pumpkin, they hadn't thought to ask. There’s so much warmth swelling in their hearts that they don’t think it matters.

The girl, their princess, smiles—a dear, true smile, tentative in the face of a brand new world, but bright with hope—and suddenly, they’re all smiling too.

She steps forward, and they follow. The prince falls into step with her and offers an arm, and their glances at each other are brimming with light as she accepts.

With her arm in the arm of the prince, a small crowd of footmen and the coachman trailing behind, and a single grey mouse on her shoulder, the once-Cinder-Girl walks once again toward the palace door.

#Well this wasn't my first Cinderella retelling idea that I was excited about BUT - #since that one was turning into a tangle of Too Much Going On (though it's currently at 5k and maybe 70% done; I still plan to finish it) #I tried this one instead! #pros: I think I actually wrote myself out of writer's block? Which is AWESOME #And I feel like I'm starting to notice what needs fixed and mended about my writing; which is very helpful! #cons: due to having the additional pro of a very socially growth-filled few weeks IRL; I did not do much about that fact #please excuse the general lack of editing thus far #I have also learned that I may want to be at least a Level 5 Fairy Tale Reteller #before I tackle stories with hundreds of years of popular retellings and versions? #Although this one came much more easily than my first idea; it still felt more difficult to write than my Nix Nought Nothing story. #So another pro - I learned that I enjoy writing about lesser-known tales the most! Next time I might try a fun obscure one. #All in all this was a ton of fun!! Thanks for running the challenge! Apologies for being nearly late - I had a wonderful time! #I hope you all enjoy! <3 #inklingschallenge #four loves fairy tale retelling challenge #love: philia #love: agape #Cinderella #story: complete #basil writes #salt and light

[thegreenleavesofspring]

The Time Sea

@inklings-challenge I hope this fits the requirements because I have bullied this into its final form.

~~~~

Gritty sand beneath her, and she dragged herself higher up the strand, the waves lapping greedily at her sodden dress. Tiny rippling wavelets washing up to pull out again with a dizzying feeling of the ground itself rushing from beneath her. She shivered there awhile, barely conscious of the lightning limning the roaring sea behind her in silver, painting the cliff above her white. The thunder blended with the noise of the waves, none of it touching her consciousness as she drifted.

The heavy black of night slithered into the dark grey of a stormy dawn. She came back to herself, shivering violently in her wet dress. The waves that had deposited her on this shore retreated down the sand, now. Her fingers were numb, hair clinging to her face like seaweed between sand grains. She brushed ineffectively at her face with shaking hands and blanched fingers. Hypothermia, her mind supplied helpfully, and then, get up and walk, it will help warm you up and you may find shelter.

She stood and looked at the cliff rising above her. It was a very small cliff, as cliffs went; only five or six times her height. The thought of trying to scale it in yards of drenched material and with numb fingers made her quail.

The storm had not passed over, though the rain had ceased for the moment; a sudden crack and roll of thunder made her jump. She glanced out at the tide – starting to come in again, now, but not quickly; she had a few moments – and backed up to look up at the top of the cliff.

Lightning flashed very helpfully in that precise moment, drawing her eye up towards the castle crouched atop the hill above the cliff. It seemed a very vampire’s lair, all sharp spires and sheer black stone and cramped window slits with no light in them and flying buttresses spiderwebbing between the towers. She rather fancied she saw bats dancing around the top of the tallest tower as tiny black specks.

It was the least inviting building imagination could conjure, but she was of a very practical turn of mind, and even the least inviting building with all its imagined horrors would be less dreadful than waiting on this narrow strip of cliff-bottom beach to be sucked back into the hungry waves behind her, or dying slowly of cold.

The castle’s inhabitants, it seemed, enjoyed trips to the beach, at times, for a thorough exploration of the bottom of the cliff revealed a narrow twisting path up the rock-face. Perhaps, she thought to herself as she hoisted her bundle of skirts – all shape lost in the ocean to a formless mass of heavy cloth, crusted stiff with salt – they came down on finer days than this, when all was sunny and the sea was calm and glass-green. Or perhaps, she thought humorously, they were vampires indeed, and descended only on the full moons to dance gruesome dances upon the strand.

The castle was further away than it had appeared from the beach, and rain started sheeting down just as she attained the grass at the top of the cliff. She heaved a deep despondent sigh, her hair slicking down around her face and shoulders all over again, shivering uncontrollably now, and started her forward slog, clutching her stomach to try and keep warm. Thunder shook the skies and ground around her, rattling through her bones. Lightning shot white and violet and indigo from sky to ground, and she peered forward at the castle each time, orienting herself off those jagged spires. A pebbled path ran from castle to cliff, but now it ran with water, a miniature rapid rushing along and tugging at her feet.

She was too tired to fight the current, slight as it was, and stepped off into the grass beside the path. The water rose to her ankles as she splashed through puddles, washing the salt and grime of the ocean from her feet and replacing it with tiny blades of grass and fragments of leaves and one very startled frog that rode on her arch for two steps before leaping away with a disgruntled cro-oak.

Her stomach had ceased its growling complaints and her mind was nearly as numb as her extremities by the time she fetched up against the rough stone and wood of the castle. She took a stumbling step back from the unyielding wall and looked around and realized that the path had widened into a drive and swooped right up to a broad shallow front step and a niche with imposing double doors. An unlit torch was set in an iron bracket to the side of it; if it had ever blazed with fire the wind and rain had long since snuffed it.

She considered sheltering in the door nook for all of half a second before another gust of wind sent her stumbling forward a step. Her mind made up, she mounted the stairs, wadded her hand inside a length of her voluminous sleeve, and lifted the massive iron knocker.

It fell with a boom that echoed through the house and faded into the thunder a half-second behind it. But the door was not even latched; the weight and momentum of the knocker pushed it ajar a few inches. She took a hitching breath and peeked in through the crack and then pushed the door open a little farther and slipped inside, leaning back against the rough wood on her hands to close it as she took in the hall.

It was long and narrow and soared to heights she could not see in the dark; the lightning coming in the windows insufficient to show the ceiling. At the far end of the hall – a mile away, it seemed – a tiny fire glowed in a massive fireplace that entirely dwarfed it. Open, doorless entryways to other rooms gaped cavernous to either side, black and opaque as pitch. The walls were bare and carved into sharp pillar motifs, climbing high out of sight. Everything was sharp and spiky and looked deeply uncomfortable and unhomelike, but there was a fire at the end of the hall and she was so cold…

Her footsteps echoed across the bare floor – marble perhaps; it was hard to tell in this dimness – rising all the way to the distant unseen ceiling and reverberating off all the walls over and over before whispering away into silence. But she did not let it stop her; she lightened her footfalls as much as she could and hurried over to the fire, whimpering in gratitude as she held her hands into the hearth itself to stick them over the anemic flames.

A bang from behind her startled her badly – she jumped and turned, scanning the hall. A staircase she had hitherto not seen, set back where the wall had fallen away – she had not seen it in her rush to get to the fire – rose to split into opposite directions. A thin wavering light hovered on the balcony of the second floor (she supposed it was the second floor) – a torch, held aloft in a hand cast deep into shadow. A tall figure held it; she caught a glimpse of a large hooked nose and robes the color of blood beneath silver-streaked auburn hair, two black eyes glittering like moonlight on a forest pool deep beneath craggy brows.

“Welcome, traveler,” the figure rumbled; a man’s deep voice. She shivered, staring up at him, caught in – not fear, precisely. He did not sound hostile or threatening. Unease, perhaps. Awe. Mind-numbing exhaustion.

When she did not respond he continued, “A room is being prepared for you. I… did not expect visitors tonight. Perhaps I should have,” he added lower, as if to himself, but the vast chamber caught his voice and carried it to her clearly. “My hospitality is not what it would usually be. Nonetheless, you will find water for washing, and food, and a change of clothes – though they may not be precisely what you are used to, they will serve for tonight.”

She found her voice at last, tongue heavy and throat sore with salt; her voice came out in an unfamiliar rasp. “Thank you, kind sir.”

His robes shifted; she caught a glimpse of a pale strong hand as he waved it dismissively. “It is my job. When you are ready, ascend these stairs and come down here where I am standing. There is a torch in the bracket beside your room.”

The promise of a wash and warm dry clothes and food was enough to send her scrambling for the stairs upon the instant. But she paused a moment at the top, looking up at the massive diamond-paned windows that rose before her. She had not seen them from the beach, nor approached from an angle that permitted view of them. But now she stood a moment, gazing out upon the storm-lashed ocean, the sun hidden behind frothing masses of grey-black cloud. Arcs of lightning speared down from the heavens to the water below, showing for just a minute waves high as buildings and hills and black as tar, shining like obsidian for fractions of a second.

She shivered, so very grateful to no longer be adrift in that furious sea, and turned to go up the staircase to her left. There was no sign of her host, now, but his torch had been left, as he promised, outside an iron-chased door.

It looked more like a dungeon door than a guest’s bedchamber, but she did not take time to worry about it, pushing the door open. A gasp of utter relief from her chapped lips – a fire, much larger than the one below, roared in the cozy little fireplace. The stone floor here was covered with a thick sheepskin, and a giant brass tub sat waiting and steaming before the hearth. Covered dishes sat on a small table in the middle of the room with a single chair drawn up; a four-poster bed stood against the far wall, buried under layers of quilts and blankets. A small heap of folded clothes lay atop it, and a single fluffy towel.

Part of her wished to take forever in the heavenly hot water, but cramping pains in her stomach alerted her that this would not be a good idea. She stepped out and wrapped herself in the towel – warming by the fire during her bath, soft as a summer cloud and almost as white – moving as close as was safe to the fireplace for a few moments. Her shivering had finally subsided in the bath, but she still basked in the heat, her skin prickling as it slowly warmed back up.

The food was simple and heavy – stew with beef and potatoes, some kind of green leafy vegetable, rolls split in the top with pats of butter pushed in to melt into the bread. A large mug of tea sat beside the plate and bowl. She scarcely paused to give thanks before falling on the food, devouring it down to crumbs and smears of gravy.

For all she knew, the master of this castle was indeed a vampire. But he had yet to offer her harm, and indeed had been very kindly and welcoming to the waif that had blown in his front door. The sheer exhaustion weighing on her now annihilated any reasonable caution. With no concern that it was, beyond the storm, still broad day, she hied herself right into that inviting bed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was broad daylight when she woke up again, too, the storm passed at last. She lay a minute, looking out at the azure-washed sky. Not a cloud to be seen anymore, but only an endless blue as deep as the ocean beneath it.

Out from beneath the heavy blankets – a drab dark green, but warm and cozy and slightly scratchy – and over to the window. The surf still ran high, the waves topped with foam as though the clouds had fallen from the sky to the sea. She stared, oddly mesmerized, for far too long, until hunger pangs reminded her that it would perhaps be prudent to seek breakfast.

She turned. The table had been cleared of its dishes, a single folded piece of strange parchment left in its place. She opened it and stared blankly at the script within; nothing she recognized.

She shook her head and set it aside, lifting the dress hung carefully over the back of the chair. It was nearly as strange as the writing on the odd parchment, with thin sleeves that clung to the arms and a bodice that laced almost up to the neck and a severe lack of ornamentation. But it was a delicate rose-pink that pleased her much more than the deep purple of her own dress, and it swept modestly all the way to the floor. Perhaps even more importantly, it was easy enough to get into without assistance.

The castle was nearly as intimidating by daylight as by thundering dim, severely plain without any relieving decorations. Dark blue-grey walls and black marble floors swallowed light, returning only a reluctant polished shine. But the vast windows at the stairs had an even better view of sea and sky and horizon than her own window had had, and she found herself arrested once more by the eternally shifting palette of blues and greens and greys.

She stood, lost a moment in time, as she watched the ocean, before turning and descending the stairs. A table had been set up before the massive fireplace with its comically small fire, and a hearty if simple breakfast laid out across it. Two chairs were pulled up before the table, and she assumed her mysterious host would be joining her.

She sat down, resolutely ignoring the tempting smells wafting up from the food spread across the table. Her stomach growled and she dug her fists into her gut to silence it, looking around at the stark hall and the sunlight sliding across the floor rather than the meal spread out.

The silence was oppressive. There was not even a clock to show the time passing, only the black stone walls and black marble floors and the bright yellow sunlight creeping back towards the near wall and the slowly cooling food.

The bang of a door upstairs startled her badly and she jumped before twisting in her chair to look over at the staircase. Her mysterious host was joining her at last, it seemed, his footfalls heavy and brisk as he descended the stairs towards her. “Good morning, lady.”

She rose at his approach. “Good morning, my lord.”

She studied him now, in the bright morning light. Grey-streaked auburn hair and a great curved nose, deep lines chiseled in his face around a heavy brow and kind dark eyes. He was truly absurdly tall, towering over her head and shoulders, a shapeless mass of deep wine-red cloak. It was quite impossible to judge his age; he looked perhaps middle-aged, save that there was some indefinable ancient air that hung over his shoulders like his garments.

He stood examining the table with a faint frown that looked rather forbidding on his heavy-featured face. “Did you not receive my note, lady?”

“I… could not read it,” she admitted, brushing nervous fingers down the thick material of her borrowed dress.

He turned that intense frowning regard on her person and she stilled. “Untaught,” he asked slowly, “or the script was unfamiliar to you?”

“It was… unfamiliar to me.”

He studied her a moment longer before sweeping a long hand, bones and sinews standing out beneath the skin, towards the table. “Please, sit and eat.”

He sat opposed to her and for awhile they both broke their fasts in silence. Only as their concentration lapsed into dallying did he brush his lips with an old ivory napkin and query, “And the dress. Was it also unfamiliar to you?”

She looked down at herself. In the bright morning light, it was truly lovely. But… “Yes, my lord, it also is unfamiliar.”

“My goodness,” the man murmured to himself. “I must be slipping. I have not misjudged an origin in… quite some time.” For some reason this last comment made him smile grimly.

She plucked up her courage. “My lord, I beg you to forgive my impertinence,” she began.

He gestured again, the craggy face settling into kindly lines. “I am no lord,” he interrupted. “You may call me… the Keeper, if you wish. Ask whatever you will, child.”

She squared her shoulders. “Where is this place, pray, sir? And do you live here all alone?”

“I do.” He reached languidly for his tea cup. “I am the Keeper of this castle, and of the shore below. The ocean below us is the Time Sea – people who are lost to the ocean are brought to my shores. It is my job to assess their original location and time, and send them home.”

This seemed entirely reasonable, but she had a concern. “And how do you do that?”

He smiled slightly. “Well, I am afraid you will have to cross the Time Sea again.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The boat was small and unprepossessing and she regarded with with deep wariness and distrust. Her dress was remarkably clean – the Keeper had put it in something he called a Washing Machine, deep in the depths of the castle – and returned to its old familiar shape. She lifted the bundle of her skirts, took a deep breath, and stepped into the rocking little shell of wood.

“And this will bear me home?” she asked nervously.

The Keeper brushed long slender fingers over the gold-embossed runes carved into the rim of the boat, the wood around them stained the same black that was between the stars at night. “It will bear you where I have told it to bear you, and I have told it to bear you home.”

Hours spent in a library taller than the hall downstairs, the maze between the shelves miles long, the domed arch of the ceiling made almost entirely of glass so that sunlight would pour in no matter the time of day. Maps and books spread out across the heavy oaken tables, dusty tomes that weighed as much as she did and were nearly as tall. Gadgets and gewgaws in crystal cases and on shelves and sitting upright on the thick forest-floor green carpet, gold and brass and silver and many other metals she did not recognize, amazing and incomprehensible. A map of the heavens all along wall that one could study for ten years and not examine all of it.

She wandered in awe-struck exploration while the Keeper consulted his books and his maps and his gizmos. It was, perhaps, hours that they were in that wondrous library, or maybe days; time seemed to pass differently here.

She could have spent ten years there without losing interest.

But amber light was stretching towards the far wall, the sun plunging towards its own brilliantly multi-hued setting, when at last the Keeper stood upright. “I believe I have found your time and place,” he announced. “It may be less fearsome for you to cross the Time Sea by daylight, so you will depart tomorrow – such as it is.”

The food that night was the food of her home – the sleep-clothes laid out for her were the old familiar type she wore every night. Her own dress awaited her the next morning, laid out carefully across the chair. The same breakfast on the table in the hall that she ate every morning.

It felt like having a piece of home with her here in this strange place.

It was jarring.

She sat very carefully. The rocking of the tiny boat made her uneasy, an instinct hissing that it would tip and dump her out again, that those waves were dreadfully large and rough.

“Are you ready?” the Keeper asked where he crouched on the slick wet boulder, holding her boat securely.

Her heart quailed, anxiety seeping up her throat like bile. “Yes.”

“Then may the Lord of All Creation return you safe home.” He shoved her tiny vessel out into the ocean and she suppressed the urge to clutch the sides by clutching her skirts instead, swallowing a nervous shriek.

“Farewell!” he called behind her, and she dared to carefully twist and look back. He stood still on his pile of rock some yards into the ocean. His shapeless robe wet to the thighs and clinging, even as spray and sea-wind alike whipped his hair. The spires of his dark castle behind him stabbing the sky, their secrets well-hidden behind the thick stone.

She rode the waves, the swells cradling her fragile boat like a mother cradling the soft head of her newborn, watching until the very tallest tower-peak sank out of sight. She sighed softly and settled into facing front again. For a long second, she was surrounded entirely by ever-shifting blue-green water, before another wave caught and lifted her high towards the cloud-daubed heavens above.

A strip of pricklingly familiar coastline ahead of her – docks and quays and shops and houses and ships and sailors and darting urchins and dogs. She gazed at it a moment in wonder and awe but no surprise at all.

The wave dropped her into a trough that propelled her forward quickly enough that she swayed back with a startled squeak. Another wave rose beneath her and crested and slung her forward like a stone from a boy’s sling, her boat overturning and vanishing under the waves behind her.

She thrashed amid bubbles rushing through the emerald water. Garbled shouts came to her submerged ears as she struggled to reach the surface. A hand seized the back of her dress and she was yanked up into open air, and then over the rough side of a crude wooden boat to land in a slippery pile of fish. Two bearded grizzled men stared down at her in considerable astonishment. “Where’d ye come from, missy?” the older one demanded. “An’ how’d ye get way out here?”

She blinked up at them. She had not realized how much she had missed the familiar accents of her people over the last two days. “My ship was wrecked in a storm.”

“The storm last night?” the younger, taller man asked, nodding. “The flotsam has been coming in today. But where have you been all this time?”

“All this time,” she murmured to herself. A dark pointy castle rose in her mind’s eye. “I was lost in the Sea of Time. But I am home now.”

#inklingschallenge #team Tolkien #genre: time travel #genre: secondary world #theme: food #theme: drink #theme: clothing #theme: shelter #finished #further tags: #fantasy #castle #ocean

[leng-m]

Let the Sun Set, Let the Day End

Paolo's parents rarely ever talked about the Catindig family, but when they did, it was always with a touch of soft pity. He could detect it in the, "Of course we must be kind to them," and the "Your grandfather never forgave himself for what happened to Edgar Catindig."

There was also an undercurrent of wry humour in the ways Paolo's parents whispered of sumpa. It meant curse or oath, if one used the ratty old Tagalog-English dictionary they brought along from Caloocan five years ago, but from his parents' tone he was sure it wasn't the latter. And while it was a word one could freely ponder in the streets of the Philippines, even among crowds in front of San Roque Cathedral, it wasn't a concept that sat comfortably in his mind as his family rode down the neat, disciplined streets of North York, Ontario.

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#inklingschallenge #team chesterton #genre: intrusive fantasy #theme: bury the dead #story: complete

[bookshelf-in-progress]

The True Story: An Epistolary Novelette

An intrusive fantasy story for @inklings-challenge

I. Christine Hendry to the proprietor of Wright and Co.

Sir or Madam:

I feel like such a fool for reaching out to you--a stranger whose business card happened to be tucked in the pages of an ancient book on my grandmother's shelf. I don't even know if your shop exists anymore; signs are against it, because I can't find so much as a phone number to contact you by. Nothing but an address and a name: Wright and Co.: Specialists in Rare, Antique, and Nonexistent Books.

That last category is the only reason I'm bothering to write at all. I'm looking for what seems to be a nonexistent book, so I may as well try writing to a shop that may or may not be real.

When I was a little girl, my grandmother read to me from a copy of Song of the Seafolk by Marjorie A. Penrose. It was an American children's fantasy from--I believe--the 1950s, all about a family getting mixed up with mermaids on a tiny Atlantic island. It had beautiful black-and-white illustrations, and language so lyrical that I still remember passages even though I haven't read it in nearly twenty years. My grandmother loved it to bits, and read it to me a dozen times after I came to live with her. I went off to college, and jobs, and travel, and I haven't much thought about that book--or, to be honest, my grandmother--since I left the house.

But now Grandma has a broken hip, and there's no one else to care for her, so I've come back. The moment I stepped back into that house, I found I wanted nothing more than to read that book. To her, if possible. I need to return the favor.

But the book is nowhere to be found. I've searched through all her bookshelves (extensive), closets (messy), and storage boxes (many and varied), to no avail. I resigned myself to the necessity of buying a new copy, but there are no new copies for sale. Or any old copies. None in any library. Not even a hint of its existence online. All my inquiries to cashiers and librarians have been met with blank stares. It seems like no one in the world has even heard of that book except my grandmother and me.

So I write to you from sheer desperation. A cry into the void. If your shop does exist, and you are a real person, is there any chance in the world that you have the book I want? Knowing now how rare the book apparently is, I shudder to think of the price you'd charge, but as long as I don't have to sell any limbs to pay for it, I find myself willing to pay almost any price. Of course, that's assuming you're a real person reading this, and you by some miracle have the book, and you haven't thrown this letter away while sneering at the lunatic who wrote it.

If all those things somehow manage to be true, please write back to me at this address, and I assume we'll be able to arrange some method of payment.

Yours, in desperation,

Christine Hendry

II. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry

Miss Hendry:

I am pleased to inform you that Wright and Co. does still exist, and it maintains its specialty of supplying books that can be found nowhere else. It is unsurprising that you were unable to locate a second copy of the book, because a glance through our sales records show that the book was purchased from this very shop in 1968 (which is likely why your grandmother was in possession of our business card), and comes from our specialized stock of books that exist nowhere else in the world.

These books tend to appear on our shelves at unpredictable times, and rarely in batches of more than one or two, so I feared I would be unable to grant your request. Yet I have sometimes found that these books appear in response to a need, so I searched the shelves, and to my delight, found the book tucked into a corner of our children's section.

The books from our special selection sometimes wander back to our store's shelves when they are no longer needed by their purchasers, and it appears that this is what happened in this case, because the book I found bears signs of ownership by a Mrs. Dorothy Hendry. Since I cannot charge you for your own book, I have taken the liberty of shipping the copy of Song of the Seafolk along with this letter.

I humbly beg your forgiveness for the suffering this has caused, and I sincerely hope Wright and Co. will be able to serve you in any future literary needs.

Faithfully yours,

Benjamin Wright

III. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright

Mr. Wright:

I'm glad you couldn't see how red my face got when I received your response. It's one thing to send a letter when there's a miniscule chance of a reply, but getting a reply and knowing that a real, living person read your words is a very different (mortifying) thing. I would never have written that letter the way I did if I had fully comprehended that it was going to be read by a complete stranger.

My only consolation is that my letter wasn't half as strange as your reply. What do you mean, the books appear on the shelves and wander back? How on Earth did you send me a copy of my own book??

Because you're right--it's the exact copy I remember from my childhood. The same purple clothbound cover with the mermaid and lighthouse stamped into it. The same jelly stain inside the back cover. Page 54 has a torn corner, and the mermaid on page 126 has a unibrow penciled onto her face. Even if my grandmother hadn't written her name in the cover, I'd have known it for the same book. Yet she would never have donated--or even sold--Song of the Seafolk, even after I moved away. She loved it too much.

Yet somehow you sent it to me. I'm so grateful that I won't even accuse you of sending a ring of book thieves to raid my grandmother's shelves.

I read the book to my grandmother this weekend, and it was like the years fell away, and we were back in the warm glow of my childhood bedroom, completely at ease with the world. The pain medication leaves Grandma foggy sometimes, but there were several points when she smiled, closed her eyes, and recited the book along with me word for word. I'd try to repay you in some way for facilitating that, but some things are priceless.

However you got the book, it seems to prove you're able to achieve the impossible, and because of that, I'm going to bother you with another request. Grandma loves fantasy, but her true love is mystery novels. She has a whole bookshelf devoted to them, mostly Golden Age paperbacks--country house novels, a smattering of noir. I feel like there's so little joy in her life right now, but the one thing I could provide would be a new mystery. Yet, looking at her shelves, I suspect that she's read every book of this type that exists. So I'm going to ask you to live up to that Nonexistent in your name and find me a Golden-Age-esque mystery that no one--not even Grandma--has read yet. If you can achieve that, I would be grateful for whatever you can send me.

Yours with gratitude,

Christine Hendry

IV. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry

Miss Hendry:

I am afraid I can answer very few of your questions as to the workings of this shop, at least when it comes to our specialized stock. Among the shelves of Wright and Co., there will on occasion appear a book which no employee has ordered--books with unfamiliar titles by unfamiliar authors, which have the appearance of age and wear, but cannot be found in any other shop, and have no history of publication by any firm. Yet there is always a reader--sometimes several, if the shop staff takes to reading it--who finds that it perfectly satisfies their tastes and fills some unmet need, as if the book was dreamt up just for them. These books seem to come into existence just when needed, and sometimes wander away when they're not.

We have several theories about the origins of these books, very few of them sensible. Perhaps they come from other worlds, where history went just a bit differently from ours. Perhaps they are books that authors dreamed up but never wrote. Perhaps they are spontaneously created in response to a reader's desires. I have learned not to question it. I merely accept the books as a gift--and bestow them as gifts to those in need.

To that end, I have honored your request for a mystery. Though I've no doubt there are many more ordinary books that could fulfill your desire (any seller of used books could tell you that this genre is far more extensive than most individual readers suspect), there is a book that appeared on our shelves last autumn that I feel will exactly fit your grandmother's tastes. The Wings of Hermes by Elizabeth Tern casts Oxford don Joseph Quill in the role of amateur sleuth, as he is pulled into the intrigue surrounding a piece of ancient Greek statuary. Quill is a very literary detective, in the vein of Gamadge or Wimsey, though his story has a touch of noir and more than a tinge of melancholy. I feel the book will be satisfying to a woman who has been a patron of our shop, and I hope it will fulfill its intended role of aiding in her recovery.

Yours faithfully,

Benjamin Wright

V. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright

Darling Benjamin,

Do you think I'm stupid? Or are you just insane? Do you expect me to swallow all that rigamarole about magic teleporting books? If it's a joke, you tell it with an alarmingly straight face, and frankly, it seems in poor taste (and poor business practice) to dump it all onto unsuspecting customers. If you don't want to explain how you got my book, fine--I'm sure it's a boring story involving mistaken donations or something--but I wish you wouldn't insult my intelligence by making up some whimsical fairy tale.

But for all that, I can't fault your taste in books. The Wings of Hermes was stupidly good. Grandma LOVED it. I stayed up until nine at night reading it with her--which is practically the middle of the night by her standards--because she was so desperate to know the culprit. It's a cut above most of the books on her shelf, and it's taken a place of pride there.

You weren't kidding about the melancholy. Grandma didn't mind--she was too wrapped up in the mystery--but I'll admit it got a bit depressing for my taste in places. The world seems dark enough right now--Grandma's hip isn't healing as well as we'd like. I'm having trouble adjusting to the move, and balancing work with Grandma's care is getting a touch overwhelming. I don't need fictional darkness on top of that.

What I need is something to lift my spirits. I've searched Grandma's shelves, and though she has plenty of comedies, there's nothing that catches my attention for more than a few pages, or elicits more than a wan smile. I don't know if there's a book in the world that could cheer me at the moment, but if any shop could supply it, I suppose yours can. Do you have anything like that? If you could, please send it my way.

At least, if you're willing to send it to a sponge. It seems you forgot to bill me for my last book, so if I have to settle the debt first, please let me know the price and I'll pay up. But please spare me the fairy tales.

Yours in respect,

Christine Hendry

VI. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry

Miss Hendry:

Your skepticism about the origins of our shop's unique books is understandable. Yet I told you the honest truth in response to an honest question. Any of our shop's past or present employees, and many of our long-term customers, would be able to verify the truth of my account. I do not typically disclose the story to new patrons, but your long history with Song of the Seafolk led me to believe you were already among those who would value it, and perhaps the faceless nature of letter-writing prompted more than usual candor. I apologize for your confusion, but I do not retract so much as a syllable of what I've said. I have told you only the truth as I know it. You may believe or doubt as you desire, but I would ask that you fling no further insults toward my honesty or my sanity.

In light of the struggles weighing upon you, the staff of Wright and Co. have forgiven any insulting insinuations, and are only too glad to do what we can to ease your burden. We have honored your request for a comedy, and have sent you a slightly worn copy of Mercator Must Walk the Plank by E.G. Delaford. It is worn because it has been read so many times by the members of our staff. It has often been stored behind the counter for staff to read in slow moments, and many of the quotes have become bywords with our little band. We sometimes read it aloud at the Christmas party. Yet by mutual consent, we have agreed that it is exactly the book you need (working here gives one a sense for these things--another Wright and Co. oddity), and gladly send it to you. If we have need of it after you've finished, we trust it will find its way back.

The book appears to have been written in (some version of) the early 20th-century, about a gentleman who takes to high-seas adventure despite his complete lack of sailing knowledge--a Don Quixote of the sea--and the woman he rescues from a shipwreck who tries in vain to set them on a sensible course. The humor is absurd, the characters memorable, and the story--I have forgotten myself. It's best for you to discover these things for yourself.

I have enclosed an invoice detailing the price of The Wings of Hermes. The price is modest compared to the extreme rarity of the book, and you may pay it if you wish to own the book outright. However, Wright and Co. also maintains a sort of library system for those who understand the unique nature of these one-of-a-kind books. For a nominal fee that covers the cost of shipping, patrons may keep one book at a time in their homes, and send it back to Wright and Co. when they wish to request another. If you wish to experience the widest variety of our unique selection--and keep these books in circulation for other readers--I recommend enrollment in this system.

I will not send an invoice for Mercator Must Walk the Plank, because we could not sell that book at any price. You may keep it for as long as it is of use to you, without interfering with your ability to borrow other books per our normal system. We consider this loan not a business arrangement, but an act of charity in your time of need.

Yours faithfully,

Benjamin Wright

VII. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry

Christine,

I hope you don't mind that I slipped a note inside Mercator before Ben sent it off. We've never let the book outside the shop before, so I just had to say hello, and welcome you to our little band of Mercator fans (because I know you're going to love it). Please don't worry about sending it back too quickly. I must have half the book memorized, and I can always recite the silliest bits if Heinrich gets too grouchy.

I am so glad you're going to get to read this book, but I have to say that I'm surprised Ben agreed to it, because I could tell some of the things you said your last letter made him upset. These books mean a lot to him, and he doesn't talk about them to just anyone, so I don't think he liked being called a liar.

Not that I blame you! I'd have trouble believing the story, too, if I hadn't seen it myself. But I have! Hundreds of times! We'll be stocking the shelves or dusting, and all of a sudden we'll see a new book there--you usually just know there's something different about it. It'll have all the stuff that a normal book does--cover and endpages and copyright stuff and publisher names, and sometimes even those order forms to buy other books from the publisher. But they're all about companies that don't exist. Or by people we can't even find on the internet. There are too many books in too many styles for them to be the work of some prankster--especially since it's been happening for years and years and years.

And sometimes the books come back to us. I can count at least a dozen times that I've sold a book to someone, and then a year or two later I'll come across the very same copy on our shelves again. It's weird, but after you've worked here long enough, you get used to it, and you forget how strange it all is to people who don't know.

So anyway, I know you're going through a lot with your grandmother (I'm so sorry! I hope she's getting better!), and I'm sure you must be a really lovely person if you loved Song of the Seafolk so much (I hope you don't mind that I read it before Ben sent it back. Delightful book!) which is why I don't mind at all sending Mercator to you, even if you think we're all crazy. But we're not, really. And I hope we can be friends.

Lots of love,

Penelope Brams

(You can call me Penny!)

VIII. Heinrich Gross to Christine Hendry

Madam,

You have the only existing copy of Mercator Must Walk the Plank. I must ask you to use caution when handling it. It is beloved by many in the shop. Please do not consume food or drink while reading it. Do not dog-ear any more pages. Please be gentle when turning the pages that are coming loose.

This book is a gift we do not give lightly. Do not abuse our kindness.

Respectfully,

Heinrich Gross

IX. Christine Hendry to the staff of Wright and Co.

Everyone,

I'm overwhelmed. I had no idea this book--or the story behind it--meant so much to all of you. I feel like I've been sent a priceless family heirloom--and you know me from only three letters! I don't know what I've done to deserve so much trust, but I will care for this book as though it were a priceless work of art (which, from the sound of it, it basically is).

In the name of honesty, I have to say that I don't believe the story of your shop. Frankly, it all sounds like nonsense. But as I'm reading Mercator (we're on Chapter Nine!), I'm beginning to see more than a little bit of Katherina in my objections. Maybe you're all mad, maybe you're mistaken, but I'm not sure it matters much. There are worse things in life than a little nonsense. Especially when you're all so very kind.

I hope all of you (especially Ben) can forgive me for the snide remarks in my last letter. Grandma and I thank you for all the books--wherever they came from--and would be honored to consider you friends.

Yours,

Christine Hendry

P.S. How do I get enrolled in that lending program? I've sent back The Wings of Hermes.

X. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry

Christine,

Have you finished the book yet? What do you think?

When you're done with Mercator, I have so so so many books I want you to read. I'm making a list. I know you probably don't have as much time to read as we do here, but I'd hate to think of you missing out on any of my favorites.

I don't want to rush you, but I've never talked to anyone outside of Wright's who had the faintest idea what I was talking about when we referenced Mercator. I've enjoyed having it as our inside joke, but it's even better to have more people in on it.

Write back soon!

Penny

XI. Christine Hendry to Penelope Brams

Penny,

Grandma and I finished Mercator Must Walk the Plank last night--and started it again this morning. I can see why you all love it so much. What a wonderfully absurd book. Exactly the type of comedy I was looking for. Your instincts were correct: it was just what we both needed to cheer us up. It's removed enough from our world both in time and plausibility to take our minds away from ordinary things, and there's nothing mean-spirited about any of the humor. So many good characters among that crew. And the plot! High comedy! It's been almost a week since I read Chapter 14, and I'm still giggling over the fishing scene.

I would be overjoyed to read anything else you might recommend. If any of them are half as good as Mercator, they're sure to become my favorites, too.

Yours,

Christine Hendry

P.S. Grandma's hip is doing much better. Still a long road to recovery, but maybe the reread will help. Laughter being the best medicine and all.

XII. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry

Miss Hendry:

I've enclosed the forms for enrollment in Wright and Co.'s specialized lending program. If you will fill in the required information (though we obviously already have your address) and submit the proper payment, we will be able to begin sending books. The catalogue is yours to keep. I'm afraid the selection is rather outdated, and the summaries less than ideal at conveying the merits of each book. It was assembled by my predecessor, and I'm afraid that my uncle's genius for books did not translate to marketing skill. Amid the cares of business, I have not found the time to put together a modernized version, especially as I find that bespoke recommendations from our staff are far more likely to result in successful pairings of book and reader.

You will note there is a section on the third page where you can request a book. If I can offer a recommendation, I believe that the Alfred Quicke mystery series by Glorya M. Hayers, with its blend of comedy and mystery, would perfectly fit the tastes of your household. The mysteries solved by idle-rich amateur detective Alfred Quicke are always intriguing, but the cast of comedic types--and the farcical situations that arise in the course of the investigation--keep the stories lighthearted. The best way I can describe it is as if Wodehouse wrote a mystery series. The setting is much like that of his most famous stories, though with curious details that suggest it is set in an intriguing alternate world. With seventeen books in the series, you would find enough material to keep your grandmother in mysteries for a long time--though I suggest starting with the fourth book, The Counterfeit Candlestick, as the point where the series finds its voice.

I appreciate the handsome apology in your last letter and accept it wholeheartedly. However, I admit I had hoped for more than agnosticism toward our story. Despite your assertions, the truth does matter, whether we can discover it or not. Though the strange behavior of these books is outside our usual experience, it does not mean it is impossible (you will find a similar truth expressed by most of the great fictional detectives), and I had hoped your respect for us would open you to the possibility that there is more to this world than what we can understand. Perhaps it was too much to expect under the circumstances. But I hope we have garnered enough goodwill that you will not take offense at this expression of my honest opinion. If you do, I apologize, and will attempt to keep future letters focused purely on business.

Respectfully yours,

Benjamin Wright

XIII. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright

Mr. Wright,

I respect your opinion, though naturally I don't agree. I don't doubt you're sincere in believing what you do, but I can think of a dozen more mundane explanations of how these books mysteriously appear and disappear on your shelves (most of them involving poor record-keeping and less-than-stellar search engine skills). I suggest we drop the subject in the future, as neither of us is likely to convince the other, and my lack of belief about the mystical origin of these books doesn't keep me from fully enjoying the experience of reading them.

I hope you won't think it rude that I filled out your forms twice. Grandma and I do count as separate households, and if I'm going to keep Grandma in mysteries and experience some of the other books, I'm going to need two separate streams of supply. For now, though, I think books 3 and 4 of Alfred Quicke will suit our needs nicely.

Many thanks,

Christine Hendry

XIV. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry

Christine!!!

I'm so so glad you loved Mercator! I just knew you would, but it's always a little bit horrible when someone else reads one of your favorite books, because if they hate it, it crushes a piece of your heart, and I don't have that many pieces to spare.

But when they love it! Oh! I can love a book twice as much when I know someone else who loves it! I wouldn't think it was possible I could love Mercator more, but thinking of you and your Grandma laughing over it in her sickbed makes me so--this is going to sound strange, but I'm proud of it. As if we sent out a friend to do a good work, and he succeeded in working miracles. I hope you read it as many times as you want. Trust me, it gets better every time.

But I hope you'll find time to read some other books, too! I'm glad you got your own account along with your Grandma's. Alfred Quicke is lovely (I love his books almost as much as Mercator--please let me know what you think of Bright Folly when you read it), but one cannot live on mysteries alone. There are so many genres, so many moods, so many eras of literature to explore, and Wright's has wonderful examples of so many of them, so I'm so glad we'll get to send them to you.

I know Ben sent you that horrible little catalogue. Ignore it. It makes so many of the very best books sound so dull, and half my favorites aren't even in it. I can do a much better job of telling you what books to read. I've got pages and pages written up about the best ones, but I don't want to overwhelm you right away, so I'll just tell you about a few of the very best at a time. I've included a list of some of the ones I think you'll like best.

You can read what you like, of course, but I can't help thinking you should read The Autumn Queen's Promise by Rose Rennow just as soon as you possibly can. If you loved Song of the Seafolk, I'm sure you'll love this. It's another children's fantasy (a newer one--'90s, maybe?), with the same type of atmospheric historical setting, though this time, it's the most vivid autumnal woods you've ever read about in your life, which makes it perfect for this time of year.

The story's all about this fairy queen who stumbles into this little village in colonial America and can't get home. And she hates them all at first, of course--she's this horrible arrogant thing--but she comes to care for them and it's just lovely to read about. A little slow, but no slower than Seafolk. A nice, relaxing kind of slow. I'm sure you'll love it.

Whatever you pick next, I hope you'll keep me posted with reading updates. I so love talking with you about these books. It's so nice to have a pen pal!

Lots of love,

Penny

XV. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry

Miss Hendry:

Your account has been opened and the requested books have been shipped. We at Wright and Co. are pleased to count you as one of our trusted patrons.

I am afraid I will find it difficult to honor your request to drop the subject of the origin of our specialized books. Perhaps it is a fault, but I have never been able to bring myself to "agree to disagree". It has always seemed to me the coward's way out of engaging with the search for truth. However, you are correct that endlessly rehashing the subject is unlikely to assist either of us in continuing that search, so I will refrain from mentioning it unless there is further evidence to discuss. If you would be so kind as to patronize our shop in person, I would be happy to offer you further proof of the phenomena that I describe, but further discussion via these letters is likely to remain futile.

Faithfully yours,

Benjamin Wright

XVI. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright

Mr. Wright:

My offer to "agree to disagree" was a courtesy to you. I'm sure you don't want to lose a customer over the issue, so I was giving you the chance to let it slide so it wouldn't interfere with our working relationship. You think that makes me a coward? How can you say I'm "refusing to engage with the search for truth" when you've admitted that you don't know what the truth is? You said yourself (I still have those first letters) that you don't know where the books come from. Just because you can find no record of them doesn't mean they just appeared out of thin air. And these supposed "returns" of books could come from donations or poor record-keeping. You say you have evidence, but from my point-of-view, you could just be a quirky small press that prints old-fashioned books and tells whimsical stories to draw in customers. With all the stress surrounding Grandma's health, there's no way on Earth that I could make a cross-state trip to see your supposed "proof" for myself.

Frankly, if it weren't for Grandma, I'd consider canceling my accounts with you. But she's been tearing through Alfred Quicke so fast and enjoying it so much that I don't dare to cut off her source of supply. And the books you've sent are wonderful--you've been so kind about Mercator, and you gave me back Song of the Seafolk, and The Autumn Queen's Promise is turning into a lovely story I wouldn't have been able to find anywhere else.

I can't wrap my head around you people. Every time I give you the chance to back away from this weird story, you double down, and frankly, it's freaking me out. Penny's so bubbly that it's easy to see how she could get caught up in it, but you write with such a serious professional voice, and you seem (in your bland professional way) personally offended at my refusal to just go along with your story of mysterious magical books. Why does this matter so much to you? Why can't the books just be wonderful, obscure stories instead of mystical teleporting tomes that respond to feelings or whatever? I can't understand you.

Maybe you'll burn this letter and cancel my accounts, but if you dare to engage, I would like to know what you have to say for yourself.

Yours,

Christine Hendry

XVII. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry

Christine,

What did you say to Ben? He's usually so nice and sensible and kind and ordinary--really a great boss--but every once in a while, he broods. And he's been brooding ever since he got your last letter. It's like he's walking around with this big old cloud over his head. He keeps wandering the shelves and then going into his office and glaring at his computer and staring at the wall.

It's got me worried. Is your Grandma okay? I guess he'd tell me if she wasn't. Or you would. I hope.

Are you dying? Maybe that would explain why you haven't written in so long.

Please don't die on me. I couldn't bear it.

Write back soon.

Penny

XVIII. Christine Hendry to Penelope Brams

Dear Penny,

No one's dying. Grandma gets more mobile every day, and I'm in as good of health as you can have when you're running mostly on caffeine and a couple of hours of sleep a night. I've just been so busy between work and Grandma's care and insurance (so many stupid phone calls) and trying to figure out our finances, and trying to find senior housing for Grandma (her house has way too many stairs), that I barely have time to eat, much less write you back. I'm sorry if I worried you.

As for Ben, well, long story short, I majorly overreacted to some minor thing he said, and wrote a sleep-deprived response that I never should have sent. I really don't want to get into it with you, because you'd probably side with him, and I'd like to keep our friendship intact, at least.

I did manage to read The Autumn Queen's Promise a few pages at a time, and it was just as lovely as you promised it would be. Exquisite fall reading. I almost hate to send it back--that lovely cover alone, with its painting of that beautiful queen in that autumnal woods, added so much atmosphere to the house just by being here. It'll never replace Song of the Seafolk in my heart, but it came closer than almost any other book to recapturing what it felt like to experience it for the first time. I send it back with warm thanks for the recommendation.

I'm also sending back your beloved copy of Mercator Must Walk the Plank. I've held onto it far longer than I deserved to. You were so gracious to send it to me, and I can't take advantage of your kindness. (You can tell Heinrich that I haven't added a single scuff to the cover).

Since Ben seems to be in no mood for letters from me, can I send my book requests through you? Grandma would like Books 8 and 9 of Alfred Quicke (she can use my account for the second, because I don't have much time for reading at the moment.)

Thank you,

Christine

XIX. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry

Miss Hendry:

You say that you find us at Wright and Co. difficult to understand, but I find you equally baffling. In a single letter, you will thank us profusely for our friendship and the books we provide, while at the same time attacking that very thing which we hold most dear. In expressing my difficulty with the phrase "agree to disagree", I was not attacking your morals. You will note I was more than willing to honor your request to drop the subject. Yet in misconstruing my words, you have sounded the horn of war, and honor and duty--and, to be honest, personal inclination--demand that I engage.

You ask me why these books--and the phenomena surrounding their existence--matter so much to me. I can answer only by biography. Wright and Co. is a small, cluttered, dim, obscure shop--you could find a thousand used book stores like it anywhere in the world--but from a young age (the shop was owned by my uncle then) it seemed a place of unique enchantment. I would spend summer days racing among the stacks and losing myself in books. I grew more jaded and cynical as I aged--most teenagers do--but whenever I was in danger of becoming a disaffected youth, there was something about the shop that made me feel there was something more than the meaninglessness of everyday life.

Learning about the miracle of the books felt like getting the answer to a question I hadn't realized I was asking. Here was proof there was something beyond the mundane and predictable. Something too wonderful for the human mind to understand. Some wondrous power cared enough about the patrons of this shop to help them get the right story in their hands at the right time--even if that story had never been written. Other books have authors and publishers, but these books seemed like a gift from the author of imagination itself.

When I took over the shop, I became a steward of that gift. Caring for these books and matching them with readers makes the running of this shop, not just a banal business arrangement, but a calling. Stories have the power to shape our imagination, our outlook, our relationships with others--and these stories, coming as they do unwritten, unbought and unlooked for, seem to have more power than most. Caring for that power is a great responsibility, one that I take very seriously. I have seen its good effect again and again. You cannot deny you have experienced it yourself.

You are correct when you say that I do not know the exact origin of these books. But I am not intellectually lazy just because I am content with no answer. Making peace with mystery--knowing that some things are ever unknowable--is not the same as refusing to believe the truth that comes before your eyes.

You have closed yourself to even the possibility of an explanation that goes beyond the reality you can comprehend. I have spoken of evidence that proves there is no rational explanation for these books, and you call me an unreliable witness. You have seen hints of the wondrous that you dismissed out of hand. I understand that you do not have the same evidence that I have, and I have not been as gracious as I should have been in making allowance for that. But saying that my refusal to seek an exact explanation makes me intellectually lazy is inaccurate in the extreme.

I may not know how these books come into my shop, but I know from whom. I may not know the exact mechanisms of the miracle, but I firmly believe there is an author of all that has allowed my shop to be a source of minor--and yes, rather whimsical--wonders. I need not know more than that to do my duty well.

Perhaps that explanation will help you to understand my position. More likely you will think me crazier than ever. But since I have explained my inner self, perhaps I have some right to ask for an explanation in return.

Ever since your response to that first letter, when I hinted at the miracle surrounding these books, I detected not only disbelief from you, but disdain. I was troubled to see such disgust toward the concept, especially from one who has proven herself an enthusiastic fan of fantasy. Why do you seek wonders in your stories, but resist it so fiercely in your own existence? Would it be so terrible for these books to have a supernatural origin? Is there not some appeal in letting the wondrous into your life?

You need not respond to such prying questions if it makes you uncomfortable. But I ask that at least, if you do respond, that you deal gently with one who has made his inner self so vulnerable to your scrutiny.

Yours faithfully,

Benjamin Wright

XX. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright

Ben,

Wow.

When I asked for an explanation, I didn't expect that.

I don't know how I can possibly respond.

I definitely understand why it matters so much to you, but somehow, this conversation has shifted from magic to theology, and I'm even less equipped to engage in a conversation about that. Not to get into too much detail, but that's part of the reason I haven't seen my grandmother in so many years. Grandma's comfortable with that stuff. I prefer my fantasy to remain safely in stories.

If what you say is true, if there's some grand wonderful power--call it magic, call it God--that does things we can't understand, then we're completely powerless against it. Which is fine if the power is good, but if the good things are real, then the bad things can be, too. There are too many ordinary problems for me to want to live in a world where there's some grand plan I can mess up by doing the wrong thing, and greater powers are waging in a war for my soul.

Fantasy is great. I love stories of mermaids and magic and the wonders of life. But it's not reality. I learned that young, and every year I live only proves it more. I'm content to live in the ordinary world with its ordinary problems, and get my escape through literature--where none of the monsters on the page can hurt me.

I'm glad--I really, truly am--that you've been able to make yourself believe in some grander purpose behind these silly little stories we've been reading. But I can't believe in that. I've seen no proof to make me believe it. Maybe you have, but most people can barely trust their own eyes, so how can I trust yours? It's not that I think you're crazy or stupid. Your personality and experiences make you want to believe. Mine make me happy to doubt. It's nobody's fault, and neither of us can change it, and it's fine. I'll stop calling you a crackpot if you stop calling me a coward, and we'll leave it at that.

Wherever the books come from, we all agree that they're wonderful, and if you don't mind dealing with a dirty nonbeliever, I'd be honored if you'd let me continue doing business with you.

Yours,

Christine Hendry

XXI. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry

Christine,

Where is Mercator? We got your letter, and The Autumn Queen's Promise, and your most recent Alfred Quicke, but no sign is there of Mercator Must Walk the Plank.

Oh! Oh no! What if it got lost in the mail? Could we survive such a tragedy? Silly old John Quackenbush and fiery Katherina, and grumpy little Pegs and that whole lovable crew--gone forever! If the U.S. Postal Service is responsible for their destruction, I'll...we'll...we'll make them pay! This is a murder and there must be justice!

Don't worry, I don't blame you. But the next mailman to cross my path better watch out. We'll find that book if we have to tear through every mail box and bag and truck in the country!

I'll keep you posted about the search if I can find the time to write.

Frantically,

Penny

XXII. Christine Hendry to Penelope Brams

Dear Penny,

I'm so extremely sorry. When I sent you that last letter, I truly thought I had packaged and mailed Mercator Must Walk the Plank, but after receiving your reply, I discovered that the book was still on its usual shelf in my grandmother's house. I've been so sleep-deprived lately that I overlook things, but I didn't think I could possibly have overlooked something that.

Don't worry. I'll be sending it out as soon as I get another box to ship it in. And this time, I'll make 100% sure it's inside before I ship it.

Please forgive me.

Christine

XXIII. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry

Dear Christine,

You've asked me not to call you a coward, but your wording leaves me almost no choice. Denying yourself the good and wondrous out of fear of evil and danger is the definition of cowardice. Staying within the narrow world of rationality makes for a bleak and colorless life--and you're none the safer for your denial. Good and evil exist whether you acknowledge them or not. Closing your eyes to them only makes you vulnerable to ambush should they come upon you unaware.

Can you not open yourself to the possibility that the good can overcome the evil? That it can offer strength to face the dangers? Great stories can do that by showing us how to act in such situations, to give us examples of victory over darkness, to open our minds to possibilities that we might not accept in our ordinary lives. You've experienced such stories. Is it so strange to think they might reflect the reality we live in? Is it so strange to think there might be some greater power offering us those stories to sustain us?

To you, I'm sure it seems impossible. But you know there are those who think otherwise. I only ask you to consider the implications of the choice.

Respectfully yours,

Ben

XXIV. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright

Ben,

I don't think you can call my position a choice. You're acting like I'm picking between favorite foods or something--picking one position because I don't like the other one. But as far as I can tell, my position is the only choice. I have no reason to believe any other option exists.

It would be wonderful if I could believe the way you do. It seems to have brought you a lot of peace. But I'm not built that way and I'll just have to struggle along. Your concern is touching, but I've been doing just fine so far.

If I ever see proof, I'd have reason to reconsider, but as it is, I have enough trouble in the world I can see to worry too much about one that I can't.

Respectfully,

Christine

XXV. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry

Christine,

Still no sign of Mercator. Did you forget to send it again, or do I have to lay siege to the post office?

Penny

P.S. Have you been reading any more of the books?

XXVI. Christine Hendry to Penelope Brams

Penny,

I have tried to send off that package no fewer than three times, and every time the book somehow makes its way back to my shelf. Maybe I'm just so used to seeing it there that I keep putting it back. I am so sorry for the delay.

It makes me feel guilty that I'm still profiting by reading your other books. Now that winter is upon us, Grandma and I have started reading aloud from the longest of your fantasy suggestions--The Queens of Wintermoon. You're right that it's an odd book--Russian-flavored science fantasy, with all those complicated family ties and political intrigues--but it's just what we need right now. Grandma is unfortunately dealing with a bout of pneumonia at the moment, which means I'm spending a lot of time at the hospital, but a big, thick, lush and lyrical literary book with a huge cast of vividly-drawn characters is just what we need to take us away from the sterile white walls and the scent of disinfectant.

It's great to sink into that snowy world with its royal glamour and underground orchards and mystical machines. Grandma and I spend ages talking about the four sisters and their royal husbands--all their flaws and heartaches and complicated relationships. I'm most attached to Vitalia and her political intrigue plot, while Grandma most loves the storyline of Inessa and her mysterious woodcutter husband. I have my suspicions about both their secrets, but I'm more than willing to wait the 800-or-so pages they'll need to resolve everything. It's nice to have something to take my mind off of other worries.

But I will keep worrying about Mercator. I promise somehow or another, it will make its way back to you.

Yours,

Christine

XXVII. Christine Hendry to Penelope Brams

Penny,

I don't understand it. This is the fifth time I've tried to send Mercator Must Walk the Plank back to you. This time I waited until I'd had a decent night of sleep so my mind was clear. I put it in the packaging (extra padding). I took a picture of it inside the box. I took a picture of the sealed and addressed box. I took a picture of the box when I took it to the post office and left it at the counter. And then I returned home to find the book sitting on the same shelf where I'd put it this morning.

Are the darn things breeding? Did you send me extra copies? There is no other explanation for what happened.

It's got my head spinning, and until I've got it figured out, unfortunately Mercator is going to stay right where it is.

Sorry!

Christine

XXVIII. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry

Christine,

Penny has made me aware of your difficulties with Mercator Must Walk the Plank. It's clear to me (as I'm sure it will be to you) what has happened. If you wished for proof, you now have it. The Powers-That-Be have determined that you have more need of the book than we do.

Please don't distress yourself by (or waste postage upon) any further attempts to send the book back. We have plenty of other books to read, and if we ever have need of Mercator, I trust that the same powers will ensure it makes its way back to us.

Yours,

Ben

XXIX. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright

Ben,

It's the middle of the night and I can't sleep. I'm trying not to think of that book and I can't. It just doesn't make sense.

This can't be happening. But it is. And if this part of your story is true, then that means the other part of the story is true, which means your theories

This doesn't mean you've won. I'm sure there's some rational explanation that I've overlooked. I shouldn't even write to you because you'll just try to convince me that this is proof we live in a world of angels and fairies who bother themselves about the books we read. But it's not like there's anyone else I can talk to about this.

If you have nothing to say but, "I told you so," don't bother writing back at all. But if you've anything useful to say I'm all ears (or eyes, I guess--weird that I've never actually spoken to you. I don't even know what you look like. How old are you?)

I should sleep. But I'm going to go off and mail this letter like a moron because it's the closest I can come to a conversation.

Good night.

Christine

XXX. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry

Christine,

This is me not saying I told you so.

That doesn't leave me much else to say.

I'm 39.

Picture the word "man" in the dictionary. Imagine there's an illustration there. That's pretty close to what I look like.

If you want to hear my voice, you'll have to come to the shop and talk to me in person. Or I suppose we could call each other. We do live in the 21st century. But I admit I've enjoyed this 19th-century correspondence we've been keeping up.

I wish I had something more useful to say, but I doubt I can say any of it in a way you want to hear.

I hope you've been sleeping better.

Ben

XXXI. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry

Christine

CHRISTINE!!

I know you didn't order another book, but I was wandering through the shelves the other day when this book just about jumped out at me. It's like it had your name written in it. Like how your grandmother wrote in Song of the Seafolk.

Your name's not in it. I checked. But something about it still made it seem like yours. Like we were keeping it from you. Ben agreed (he's got a good sense for these things), so I started preparing the box to ship it. But I read a bit of the first chapter before I packaged the book, just to get an idea of what I was sending you. I didn't move from that spot until I'd read the whole thing. Ben just about locked me in the shop before he found me sitting in a daze in the back room.

Christine, you have to read this book. Now. It's the most beautiful...well, not fantasy. But it's not not fantasy. It's so real and yet so magical and you could maybe read it both ways. I haven't stopped thinking about it since I finished it.

But what's the book? If you've opened the package by now, I'm sure you know it's called Cardinal's Map by someone named Dorothy Cannes. It's from the eighties, it looks like, but it feels older. And newer. Does that make it timeless? I suppose all of the books in our "special" selection feel that way. Anyway, it's about this girl named Miranda, and she's this terrible grouch, and she goes to work for this old guy named Cardinal (that's where the title comes from) who needs help writing his book. And he's got the most beautiful map of all the countries in world of his fantasy book. Except the countries might be real? And just....ack, I don't have words! The book has a lot of them. Read those instead.

And then write to me because I need to know what you think about the ending!!

Lots of love,

Penny

XXXII. Christine Hendry to Penelope Brams

Penny,

You were right.

Thank you.

Christine

XXXIII. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright

Ben,

It's been three hours since I finished Cardinal's Map, and I haven't moved from my chair. Everything you said about the power of story is true. It's like this book reached into my soul and rearranged the furniture. Cleared out the clutter. And it did it by sweeping me along with the characters and the story and the beautiful prose so I didn't even know what was happening until it was already done.

Everything we've been fighting about for the last few weeks was in this book. It talked about all the things you were trying to tell me, but instead of just telling me, it showed me and made me think and feel and helped me make sense of it all. And I never felt like it was preaching. I'm not even sure it was trying to preach. It's just...a story, so I let my guard down and it got under my skin. Just like Cardinal's map got to Miranda.

I don't know if you've read the book or not, but the premise is that John Cardinal is writing this extensive fantasy work and Miranda's this jaded college kid hired as a secretary to help him arrange all his notes. And she's fascinated by the fictional map and gets swept up in the book, until she realizes that Cardinal is telling the story of his life. That this character who traveled to this other fantasy world is supposed to be him. And she's got to figure out if he's using this as a metaphor, or if he's crazy, or if this other world really is a real place.

And by the end of the book, we don't know. You could read it both ways--the world in the map is either a metaphor or a real country that he’s been to. But it doesn't really matter which one is true, because the bigger truth is that Miranda knows there's something beyond the rational world that we can see. And it's not terrifying. It's wonderful. It's not this place full of monsters waiting to pounce--it's this exciting, dangerous, beautiful place to explore.

If Penny wants to know what I think of the ending, I believe that Cardinal's world is real. And I believe your story is true. I've seen evidence. That terrified me, because that means the world no longer makes sense. But the truth doesn't have to be a terrifying destruction of the reality I know; it can be an expansion of it. I don't understand why any of this happens, or how, but maybe I don't have to know how. I just need to be thankful that it did.

You said that Mercator stayed with me because I needed it more than you guys did. Maybe what I needed was evidence of the miracles you told me about. Then I wondered why Song of the Seafolk wandered away, because I very much needed it here when it was at your shop. But maybe what I needed was to write to you. The correspondence we've shared, the books you've sent me, they've strengthened me through a lot of difficult weeks. They've given me and Grandma a lot of joy, brought us back together after so many year's apart. And they've helped me straighten out a lot of questions I didn't know I was wrestling with.

There was someone's hand in all this--an author arranging all the pieces of the story in a way I'd never have been able to achieve on my own. Maybe before that'd make me feel helpless, but now, I don’t know, I guess I feel cared for. Like someone’s watching out for me.

I feel like I should thank you, and I don't know how. This is too deep for words. Thank you for writing, even when I was horrible to you. Thank you for the books. Thanks for being a part of my story.

Grandma's doing better now. If she's up for it, I think it's time for a road trip.

If you're ever going to see Mercator or Cardinal's Map again, I might have to hand them to you in person.

Love to all of you,

Christine Hendry

XXXIV. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry

Christine,

You may not believe me, but I did not read Cardinal's Map before sending it to you. I simply had the notion that it would be the ideal book for your circumstances--and I was as surprised as you were to find just how true that was. Another gift, I suppose.

I look forward to reading it, if you can ever spare it (I look upon the book as belonging to you now). I also greatly anticipate the opportunity to see and speak to you here in the shop. I hope you will not wait long to make good on your promise.

Yours faithfully,

Ben

XXXV. Christine Hendry to the staff at Wright and Co.

Everyone,

I can't say how wonderful it was to see you all in person. You all looked just like I pictured you. Your shop is too wonderful for words. I could have moved in. But alas, Grandma and I don't have the resources for a move right now.

We'll have to continue the friendship long-distance. Now that I have the shop's phone number (funny I never thought to request it before), and your personal numbers, I suppose we can call whenever we like. But if you don't mind, I'm going to keep corresponding by letter, too.

Love to you all,

Christine

#inklingschallenge #team chesterton #genre: intrusive fantasy #theme: visit the sick #story: complete #remind me to tell you the behind the scenes stuff sometimes #maybe it wouldn't be interesting to you but it was a wild ride

[lady-merian]

The Tiffany Problem

Here it is, all in one convenient post :D a huge thank you to @valiantarcher for beta reading and catching so many errors and offering advice on some rough spots. edit: whoops forgot to tag @inklings-challenge in my excitement

I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anything quite like it; a storm blowing a tree over and leaving a girl in it’s wake. She had a dazed look about her, and  was dressed in the oddest clothes . A short green tunic and long blue trousers. Short boots with dingy white lacing and a flower crown in her shoulder-length nut-brown hair.

It was the flower crown that decided it for me.  If not for that, I might’ve thought she was one of old Halsey’s stablehands, following behind me. Oh yes. Come one and all; a knight has been chosen to slay the dragon. Gawk at him while you can. Ha. The king had sent me to my doom, as though he actually believed I might succeed. Possibly he did. King Arlan was something of an optimist. Whatever the reason, the situation with the dragon was getting desperate, and murmurings against the king’s inaction were increasing. A team of knights would’ve been better suited to this task, (if even that would help) but for whatever reason I alone was chosen.

So here we were, my horse and I, not far from Warian Castle. It would’ve been possible for some curious child to have followed me, but I doubted that was the case here.

I hadn’t intended to be out in the rain at all, but it’d come on so suddenly and there was no shelter to be seen. Woodlands are not the safest place to be caught in a storm, but then again they’re not the worst either. Thankfully that was the only tree that fell, and the rain stopped soon after that.

If you believed the old tales, which I didn’t, her appearance was some sort of omen. It was said that a wood-nymph had appeared to king Talvar right before he took the throne, and gave him the sword that’d vanquished his enemies. Rubbish. All of it.

Well, omen or not, there was something odd about this; my horse and I were soaked through, but she was barely damp. If there’d been shelter nearby, I wish I’d have known about it.

The dazed look hadn’t left her, but she blinked up at me. “You don’t look like any of the knights I’ve seen. Who are you?”

Well it was no wood-nymph after all. Just a girl, still of an age to be making flower crowns. The accent alone would’ve been enough to mark her as a foreigner if I hadn’t already guessed that  I, myself, am not well-traveled. Other than a brief sojourn into the neighboring kingdom of Arion, back when old king Gerard was on the throne, I’ve never even left Telurin. So I couldn’t’ve said where she might be from, only that it wasn’t anywhere I knew of.

If she didn’t recognize the device on my shield, the famous leaping stag of House Rioghan, any answer I could give her would be inadequate. Instead I asked some of my own. “Are you lost, lass? Where are your parents?”

Apparently, my voice did the same thing for her as hers did for me. She blinked up at me again, (must have hit her head on one of the tree’s branches as it fell,) and her eyes widened.

“Whoa, you’re one of the professionals!”

Were we speaking two different languages after all?

She dropped into a near perfect courtesy—near perfect because she was not attired properly, and the rough blue trousers were a poor substitute for a flowing skirt.

“I beg your pardon, Sir Knight,” she said, “but no. I’m not lost, my parents are back watching the juggling act and said I could look for the food vendors.”

“Juggling act?” I looked around, but there was only woodland. Was there a stronghold nearby that I didn’t know about? One with a minor lord who was being entertained by a juggling troupe?

“Yes, back ther—“ she half-turned and gestured behind her, but stopped with a gasp at something I couldn’t see. Her hand flew to her mouth.

Wood nymph. Omen. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I brushed the thoughts aside.

“It’s gone! It’s all—“

She turned back to me, and said in a small voice, “I think…I must be lost after all.”

c>={====>

Her name, she said, was Tiffany. And whatever she said about not being hurt, she must have hit her head when that tree fell.

She said all she felt when she stepped through that stone archway (whatever archway she was talking about) was a strong cold wind and then the fallen tree was in front of her. I’d felt the chill in the wind, but it’s autumn. Of course it’s going to be cold. Yet the sleeves of her tunic were cut short, so her arms were indecently bare from elbow to wrist. I’d have some choice words for her parents about that. She shivered in the telling of her tale.

My cloak was much too damp to be of any use in warming her, but the sun was coming out now.

I dismounted and sat in the brightest patch of sun to dry off while she went to inspect the tree. She ended up circling it three times, (Omen. Wood nymph. I shook the thoughts away yet again) before returning to tell me that she didn’t know where she was and had no idea how to get home.

As if my impossible task wasn’t impossible enough, I now had a charge who probably couldn’t even mount a horse, let alone slay a dragon. I couldn’t leave her stranded here, and I couldn’t take her with me.

If I did believe in the old tales, I’d start thinking I was cursed.

“Where do you live?” I asked cautiously. “Carranburn? Or maybe Ellsbridge, or one of the other surrounding villages?”

Please let it be somewhere close by.

I didn’t know if this counted as a prayer. I didn’t know if I was desperate enough for that yet. What was the difference between the God of All, whom the Priests said was everywhere (though invisible,) and the old tales, which I’d long ago realized were myths? 

“Never heard of them,” said Tiffany, twisting the stem of a fallen leaf between her fingers. “I’m from New Haven. We came down to Fishers for the Faire.”

I hadn’t heard of any places by those names either. “There isn’t a faire around here,” I said.

“I believe you. But that’s why I’m here.”

“Please don’t speak in riddles.”

c>={====>

She still spoke in riddles, no matter what I told her. Only it wasn’t cryptic conundrums like in the legends, it was chatter that made no sense, with words like “Fone” and “Why Fie”. A small device she carried was not behaving quite as it should, apparently. Whatever her small black rectangle was supposed to do, it was not doing it to her satisfaction. She gave up and placed it back somewhere in the folds of her clothes from whence she had pulled it.

“I figured it wouldn’t work,” she said, “but I had to try.”

“Did you now?”

“Yeah, my mom—er.” She glanced at my face with an odd expression. “I mean my mother is going to worry about me. But then maybe not. Maybe I’ll get back and no time will have passed. Like in the stories.”

“Stories.” It wasn’t a question, so I wasn’t disappointed when she responded with a question of her own.

“So where are we?”

Besides the middle of a forest? Where ought I to begin? 

“We are near the townlands of Gwydd.” 

A blank look. I sighed. 

“In the kingdom of Telurin. Ruled by King Arlan.”

Still no response. 

“Those mean nothing to you?”

“No, sir.”

Well in that case she wasn’t likely to have been sent by anyone to prophesy my success or failure, yet I was no closer to understanding what was going on.

She had no more heard of the kingdom of Telurin or king Arlan than I had heard of a place called Fishers or New Haven. Those names seemed to me to indicate a seaside home for the girl, yet she claimed they were inland and she had never even seen the sea.

There was nowhere for her to go but with me—for a time. There might be someone in the next town that could take charge of her, though what I could afford to bargain for her keep I had no idea. Mayhap the Kirik would help a lost girl… I kept my worries to myself, except I did tell her the part about looking for the Kirik at the nearest town. Tiffany agreed to go with me, but at the suggestion of the Kirik she looked puzzled. “Who’s Kirk?”

“Not ‘who,’ lass. ‘What.’ Have you never been?”

She didn’t seem like a heathen, but you never know. I helped her mount, which was necessary even though she actually had ridden before, for Riastrad was no child-sized pony. It was only after I mounted behind and we set off that she asked any more questions.

“So. What is the Kirk?”

“Kirik,” I corrected absently, but other than that I found myself ill-equipped to give a helpful answer. “You ought to ask one of the Elders when we get there.”

“Elders? Is it like a church?”

I rolled the word around in my mind. It wasn’t too dissimilar. It may have been that her accent was the cause of confusion— or rather, mine was. 

She interrupted my thoughts. “Do they teach about God there?” 

“Yes,” I said slowly. “The God of All. Maker of the world and everything in it.” 

She relaxed. “Well, that’s all right then.”

There was something comforting about the fact that He was familiar to her, which was odd considering the fact that I had my own questions about the God of All. 

“Where were you going when you found me?” She asked.

“Does it matter? You probably wouldn’t recognize the place.”

“Oh kay why were you traveling?”

By her tone I gathered that “Oh kay” meant “all right” or something similar. Another oddity in her speech, which I dismissed without comment. The land from whence she came seemed backwards enough to me already without me learning any more about it.

“So many questions. And it still doesn’t really matter, because you’re not coming along. It’s too dangerous.”

She sat in silence for a time, which at first I thought was a miracle in itself; then I began to worry I’d been too harsh and thought I ought to explain. 

“It’s nothing anyone can help with. I have to kill a dragon, and it’s not—“

“A dragon?” She sat straighter in the saddle. “Those are real?”

I let out a breath. “Of course they’re real, and for some reason I was chosen to stop this one from terrorizing the countryside. So you see my problem.”

“That’s awes—-I mean that’s going to be hard.”

“Hard? It’s impossible. Don’t they have dragons where you come from, lass?”

“Where I come from they’re a myth.”

The idea of something so terribly real being thought of as a mere myth gave me a strange feeling, like someone doubting the sun or the wind if they lived too much indoors.

She shivered a little, whether from the cold (my cloak was still too damp to be of much use in keeping her warm) or from sudden fear I couldn’t tell.

“Next you’ll be telling me it’s always warm where you come from, and that’s why you’re dressed like this without even a cloak to warm you” I said.

Her shoulders shook with sudden laughter. “It’s not always warm, but it was summertime when I woke up this morning. ”

Utter nonsense. I urged Riastrad into a canter as soon as the way through the wood was clear enough, more than eager to hand off my charge to someone else.

The journey to Carranburn didn’t take long, and finding the Kirik was easier still. I spotted it’s tower before we entered the town proper. 

We were met at the door by an elder of middling age, with silvering hair. He took one look at us, beamed, and said “We’ve been expecting you.”

c>={====>

A prophecy. About us. What utter nonsense. Over the late supper of bread and wine that was provided for us, Elder Donn, the one who welcomed us, told us of a dream he had a few years ago about a great red dragon destroying everything in it’s wake. At first banishing the idea as nothing more than too rich of a supper before bed, he nevertheless could not forget it and so told Father Beithe, the priest. Six months ago, when the rumors of a dragon in the southern foothills of the Dubhach Mountains first came, and he remembered that dream, he had another. This one involved a knight bearing the device of a white stag, leaping as though it would come off of his shield and come to life. 

“And we knew that must be you. There are no others left that bear that device. We knew the King would choose you before he did.”

He went on to explain how shortly after that, he and the priest both had a dream on the same night.

A girl with flowers in her hair, carrying a mysterious white light to match my white stag, and me, carrying a shining lance instead of my sword.

“It must be the Duraidd lance!” Elder Donn exclaimed. His face shone in the soft lamplight. 

“Now that is ridiculous. I don’t have any lance with me, let alone that one, and I would not bring a child along. I’ll not risk her safety on the basis of a dream.”

Elder Donn cocked his head to the side as though considering, then said, “Three dreams.”

He seemed at least as ignorant of the dangers of dragons as Tiffany. “I wouldn’t bring her if you’d had a hundred!” 

Tiffany cleared her throat. “What’s the Duraidd lance?

I started to say it was a legend, but Elder Donn had a different idea.

“It’s the lance used by Sir Rioghan, the knight that handled the last dragon who attacked Telurin.”

The elder nodded to me. ‘His ancestor.”

Tiffany’s eyes widened as she looked at me.

I clenched my jaw. Whether or not the whole story of the defeat of the great Breunachd was true, my great great grandfather had died from his wounds. His lance, if it still existed, would do me little good. Hoping against hope, I still wanted a way out of this alive.

“It’s said to be displayed in the Kirik of Kynvan, where the dragon’s defeat took place.”

The town was conveniently in my path. I wondered whether Elder Donn knew? 

“I cannot bring her along,” I tried again. “Even if the lance is there, it would not guarantee success, and I cannot be responsible for her safety and defeat the beast at the same time. My duty to the king must be my first priority.”

“You would abandon her here?” 

Abandon her? That wasn’t fair. “You would refuse to shelter her?”

“Certainly not. If it’s shelter she wants, she could find it here.”

Elder Donn looked to Tiffany, who gave a quick shake of her head.

“I would understand your hesitation if we were asking you to take her to the dragon’s lair, but we are not,” Elder Donn continued. “Nor are we asking you to take full responsibility of her. I myself planned to accompany you as far as she does.”

I frowned. Why would she not want shelter?

Then I turned to her, a horrible idea growing in my mind. During the whole tale from Elder Donn she had sat, wide eyed, not interrupting once. At first I thought it a matter of manners, but that she surely shared my skepticism. Now I wondered. “Do not tell me you believe you should come along!”

Tiffany shrugged. “I don’t see that I can get home by staying here.”

Unspoken was the thought that she had been called here for a purpose, but Elder Donn was thinking it I was sure. They shared a glance between them, and I gave up, outnumbered. I threw my hands in the air in surrender. “You can travel with me as far as the kirik of Kynvan. We can see if the lance is even there, since the town is in my path anyway, but I won’t promise anything beyond that.”

Tiffany brightened at this, where I had hoped she would recognize the seriousness of the situation. She seemed to put more stock in these dreams than I.

c>={====>

The girl is younger than they usually are when they come here, these Travellers from other worlds. The last one was a boy, not too much older than she is now--at least the first time he came. He was one of the few who returned, and it's how one of my theories about the Travellers was proven accurate: time flows differently between worlds. He visited once as a young man, and then, scarcely a year after he had returned to his own world having helped rescue the missing lady Elowyn, he returned years older. Others had been reported to have returned without such vast difference in time. Once with no discernible variance at all. Truly there is no predicting it. The one constant in our records is the mysterious wind, where previously there had been none.

Back to the girl. She calls herself Tiffany. An ekename for Theophania, but when I called her Theophania she looked at me with an utterly bemused expression.

Unlike the last one, she does not need to be convinced of the seriousness of the situation. She expresses no surprise about this being a different world than hers. The God of All rules them both. Listening to her, I ponder for the first time if these two are the only worlds after all. There could be so many, and we have no way of knowing if our infrequent visitors all come from the same one. I make a mental note to look through our chronicler's writings for clues. She has sparked some curiosity in me, Tiffany has. Moreover, she knows not only of the God of All, but of his Son, our Lord and Savior, and his death and resurrection. She knows it all, yet the scriptures say he died but once. How then could it be the same in her world as it is here? Ah, further musings to take to Father Beithe. He shares my curiosity of this other world and the awesome workings of the God of All.

I have told them both what I know. Sir Uriah, the last knight of House Rioghan is at least as skeptical as he is courageous. I expected Tiffany to be the one to be convinced, but the only doubt she has is what this mysterious light could be. I haven't the faintest idea. It is true that I do not even know if the light is to be taken literally. She persists in questioning, and all I can tell her is that it was pure white, more like to a star than the glow of a candle or lantern.

In a collection of garments donated for the poor, I found a serviceable dress for Tiffany as well as a cloak. (Not only will her short tunic and trousers not be warm enough in this weather, none of us want to attract any undue attention and her odd clothing would certainly mark her as a Traveller.) It was only an old woolen dress, of a pale, faded green color, but she was delighted, and put it on over her own clothes and twirled as though it was the finest thing she had ever worn. It even brought a smile to Sir Uriah’s face, though he quickly smothered it. I suspect he does not want to show any sort of approval lest it be taken for encouragement of our plans. He has not taken to the idea of bringing Tiffany so close to danger. I myself would be inclined to send her in the opposite direction if not for the dreams and the certainty that she is meant to accompany him as far as the kirik of Kynvan. Further than that I cannot tell. 

Ah, I must put away this chronicle and get some rest. The kirik of Kynvan is roughly a day’s journey from here. We leave with the dawn. 

c>={====>

The morning was shrouded in a gloomy fog as we left the kirik. Elder Donn rode a mule, with Tiffany perched on a shaggy pony belonging to one of the inhabitants of the village but which was often lent to the kirik at need. 

I was glad they weren’t coming all the way to the Dubhach mountains. If we had to ride hard away from an attack of dragon fire I wouldn’t give a fig for either of their chances.

The gloom had no effect on Tiffany, who prodded Elder Donn for information about the other Travellers he had mentioned to her the night before. I had little to do but listen as she mentioned the stories she had read of similar Travellers. And Elder Donn’s interest as she mentioned one in particular that compared history to a great tree with branches that spread out and went different directions but were rooted in the same place.

“These stories... If you likened history to a tree, with creation as the roots and the crucifixion and resurrection of our Lord as the place where the branches begin to spread, and each branch spread into a different world, it could explain how there could be more than one, and yet would mean Christ died but once as the scriptures say. Extraordinary. It might account for some similarities we’ve noted between worlds. Is something like this possible, do you think?”

Tiffany shrugged. “I don’t know. It wouldn’t explain everything. I liked the sound of it though.”

“But It was not a true story, you say?”

“No,” Tiffany said, “but it got me thinking about it. I guess I’m not the only one that hoped the stories of other worlds could be true.”

“You mean to say none of the tales in your world about other worlds have documented facts?”

“They’re all stories.” She shrugged. “In books. I don’t know of anything like your records. But I do know if I went home and told people about what’s happened here they’d think I was playing a game, or went mad, or hit my head and dreamed it all up. Especially if I mentioned a dragon. So I might be cautious about making a record when I go home.”

“Ahh. Unless you shape it as a story or a dream.” Elder Donn rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I believe I see your point.”

Once again, that strange feeling washed over me. Only this time it carried a subtle shift in my perspective. Of course I knew dragons were real, and they were not less real for the fact that she had never met one. I had never met one personally either, but I had evidence that they existed. If her world was as full of doubt as she made it sound, then even such evidence as I had—stories passed down from people who had seen them firsthand, the blackened stones and rubble of Westmore Castle which had never been rebuilt after Breunachd’s attack—would perhaps not suffice. Fires could come from other things than dragon attacks, after all. On the other hand, how was it then that Tiffany was the one who had no trouble believing that the God of All had sent her here for a purpose?

Lost in these thoughts, I paid less attention to their conversation about the nature of time between worlds. They were quite a pair. Maybe the God of All had actually sent her to keep Elder Donn company and offer new information for his scribblings.

As the morning wore away, the fog turned to mist and the mist turned to gold before disappearing entirely. 

When we stopped for our noon meal, there was a break in the chatter. Elder Donn brought out some dry traveller’s loaves and hard cheese from the bundles he’d so carefully packed that morning. Tiffany tore her bread in half and stacked the cheese between the two pieces before eating. An unusual custom, which I chose not to inquire about. Elder Donn was another matter, but I paid little heed again as I started to think more seriously about how to convince the others to let me go on alone to the Dubhach mountains, whatever we found in Kynvan.

After our meal we were back to the road.

The wooded country that had opened up around Carranburn, cleared for farmsteads, again gave way to a land where great trees sprang up and the road was darkened by overhanging branches still full of leaves that had not yet fallen. Tiffany’s chatter did not resume for some time, and when it did it was a question directed at me.

“If it was your ancestor who killed the last dragon with the Duraidd lance, why is it displayed somewhere else? Why don’t you have it?”

Of all the questions I should have expected this one. 

“My grandfather’s grandfather died soon after the dragon Breunachd did, for the burns he was given by the beast never healed despite the kingdom’s finest healer tending them herself. He was buried there at the Kirik. It was said that his lance somehow survived the flames and was buried in a tomb with him, but that part of the tale is too uncertain.”

“He must’ve been pretty strong,” Tiffany remarked. “To joust with a dragon, I mean.”

There she went again, with words that made no sense. To join it in single combat was of course the very thing I was supposed to do. It puzzled even Elder Donn.

“They say he threw it at Breunachd's open mouth, and it lodged so deep in the beast's throat that it could not be removed until he was dead,” he ventured to say, “yet somehow the shaft was not burned to ash even in Breunachd’s death throes.”

“That was one of the versions I have heard,” I added. “Which is why I say it’s uncertain. It makes no sense.”

“How could he have thrown it?” Tiffany frowned. “A lance is for jousting.”

“For… joining in battle… yes.”

At which point we both accepted that we were not going to understand one another, as an awkward silence followed.

Personally I always thought the story of the lance’s survival was too far fetched, but people love a legend and Sir Rioghan dying so soon after the beast meant the legend needed a bit of help to ease the retelling. Not that the miraculous survival of a piece of wood and metal made it that much better. If it had survived, which was in some doubt. 

“What were the other versions you heard?” Elder Donn asked.

“The way my grandfather told it, the lance did lodge in Breunachd’s throat, but its jaws clamped down on the shaft and combined with the flames the wood was consumed. The sharp metal head worked its way deeper into the flesh and the beast died in a great mass of blood and flame.”

I expected—hoped for— a grimace from Tiffany at the description. Let her realize this wasn’t a nice, safe quest. When I glanced her way, however, she looked as calm as before. 

“Of course my grandfather wasn’t there,” I continued, “but he says his father was old enough to travel to Kynvan with my great great grandmother to see Sir Rioghan before he died. Now my cousin remembers the tale a little differently: he remembers hearing that the flames traveled the length of the shaft until it glowed too hot to hold but did not burn. Yet the process of working it free from the dragon’s corpse bent the metal into something unusable. Goodness knows how there are so many different versions of the story. If it ever was displayed at the Kirik, I expect we will not find the shining lance you saw in your dream.”

“Is that why you don’t believe in the dreams?” Tiffany asked. 

“The why, lass, is more complicated than that. If I saw some sign of the dreams being anything other than—what did you call it, Elder? Too rich a supper before bed?— I might change my mind.”

“I’m here,” Tiffany narrowed her eyes. “Or do you still think I’m from your world and not another?”

Caught, neatly as an animal in a trap. If I said I didn’t believe she came from another world, it was as good as calling her a liar. If I said she did come from another world, I had little basis for believing that and not the rest of the dreams. 

It was as if they read my thoughts. Elder Donn chuckled and an impish grin spread across Tiffany’s face. 

“There are only three possibilities, you know.”

“Three?”

“Well, yes. I could be lying, or mad, or telling the truth.”

Odd as she sometimes seemed, madness was something I’d stopped considering long ago. “I did think at first you had hit your head,” I admitted, “but there’s no evidence of that. I checked, and you didn’t have a head wound. And since then you have been as sane as I.”

That got a smile out of Elder Donn and a giggle out of her. “Only since then?”

I decided not to tell her about thinking of the wood nymph that supposedly appeared to King Talvar. That might not persuade her of my own sanity, if she knew I had seriously considered it.

“I will grant you that you appeared strangely and I do not know from whence. Does that satisfy you?”

“We’ll have to see about the rest then,” she said. 

c>={====>

The first of the refugees came upon us while we were still several leagues from Kynvan. A couple with a young child in her mother’s arms, fleeing with very little more than the clothes on their backs. They did not stop to explain, they scarce acknowledged us at all, even at Elder Donn’s benediction. Shock was written in every line on their faces. 

I heard Elder Donn murmur a prayer for them after they passed. 

More families, trickled past us, then groups of families, bringing rumors of fires and collapsed buildings and a challenge from a monster. Finally an old woman who seemed to be attached to no one finally took notice of us.

“You should turn the other way, Sir Knight, Elder.” She bobbed her head at each of us in turn. “If not for your sake, then for the girl. This Namhaid is not content to stay in his lair.”

I was going to say that I agreed, Elder Donn and Tiffany should turn back, but Tiffany sat straight up in her saddle. 

“He can’t turn back, and I’m not going to. The king chose him to defeat the dragon.”

“What do you mean Namhaid?” Elder Donn broke in.

“That’s what the beast calls himself!” The woman said. “He came, destroyed the Kirik with one blast of fire and a sweep of his great tail, thick as a cedar, and boasted that no one could stand against him. Then he snatched up a maiden and flew back to his lair! But he’ll be back. The sensible ones of us have fled.”

Then the woman was gone, swept along in the tide of people fleeing. 

The tide slowed after a time, and all the while I was trying to think of something to say that would convince Elder Donn and Tiffany to flee with them. I could claim to believe the lance would be there, in the rubble of the kirik, I could claim to believe Tiffany had helped enlighten me and given me courage, that the light of Elder Donn’s dream must therefore be symbolic. 

No, tempting as it was I wouldn’t lie to her.

May she find her way home. Now this one was a prayer. If you’re there, may she find her way home. And Elder Donn as well. Why should they be caught up in this with me?

“The dragon is not there now,” Tiffany said. “I know you’re still trying to get us to leave you, but I think we should go to the kirik at least.”

It was rather annoying to have her guess so much of my thoughts. 

“It was destroyed,” I said. “You heard the woman.”

“I promise if we don’t find anything there I’ll give up, but I can’t go back without us even trying. If we find a way for me to get home before then, I’ll go back without arguing.”

That seemed like an easy way to get her to go back, in a way. Still, I had my doubts. “Even this is a lot of risk.” I looked to Elder Donn. “What do you think? We don’t know when the dragon will return.”

“We don’t know that it will be today,” Elder Donn replied. “As it is, it is getting dark. There will be shelter in town.”

Caught betwixt warring responsibilities. It was getting dark, and upon realizing that, I was ill at ease sending them back along the road so late in the evening even with the fleeing townsfolk. A panic stricken group seemed like little protection from other dangers that might lurk, dragon or no. 

I agreed. 

It was not yet full dark when we reached the town of Kynvan. An air of melancholy hung over the place. It became apparent that not everyone had left or even planned to leave. Some were obviously stragglers, still loading possessions into carts, but others seemingly had no intent to move on, others still appeared to have been wounded in the dragon’s attack and might have left if they could have. 

All around I saw scorched buildings and scorched people, with burns and bandages aplenty. A chill wind was blowing the smoke away westward. Tiffany shivered and pulled her russet cloak tighter around her. 

We had to find the Kirik, or what was left of it. Then we had to find somewhere to shelter for the night so I could send Tiffany and Elder Donn back  in the morning with a clear conscience. 

c>={====>

The main stone building of the kirik had partially collapsed with half of the roof caved in. There was no way I would allow either of them to explore the rubble, and yet if we did not try I could not hope to convince Tiffany to go back with the Elder in the morning. The half that was still standing stood dark and forbidding, with broken glass from the windows scattered along the ground and glinting with the last of the light from the setting sun. 

“We should try in the morning,” Elder Donn said. “It’s sure we won’t find it in the dark.”

"Wait!" Tiffany exclaimed. “Light!”

Then, without explaining further,  rummaged in the folds of her clothes again and pulled that small black rectangle out. She did something to it, tapping the broad flat center rapidly, muttering about a battery and some nonsense about it having some life left except for service in cells, which she said was dead. The words she used were familiar, yet utterly severed from any meaning that I knew. 

“There,” she said proudly, holding it aloft. “Will this help?”

A bright white light streamed from the top and even I felt something stir as I thought of the white light of Elder Donn’s dream--though I also winced away from the brightness that made spots dance in my vision. 

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t think it would be that bright. It’s not, usually.” Her brow furrowed. "I don't think so, anyway."

“All along you had this?” Elder Donn said, wonder in his voice. 

“Well, yes, but I didn’t need it till now,” Tiffany replied. “The candles at the kirik were nicer. Can we look for it now?”

I could hardly tear my eyes away from the light, even as it stung my eyes. Far better than a torch would be.

"May I?"

Tiffany shrugged and handed it over. My understanding of it was no better, but at least it was not as though the light was sorcery that required her touch and hers alone. She even showed me what she did to banish the light and command it back again. 

I showed it to Elder Donn, who stood transfixed for a moment before confirming what I suspected.

"This is the light from my dream. I am sure of it." 

And I believed him. It perplexed me, this certainty. I was still no closer to allowing Tiffany or the elder to explore the rubble, but I was now actually considering what I might find if I was to search for my great grandfather's lance. 

"This?" Tiffany was incredulous. "But this is just..." 

She stopped. "Oh, Kay, so this is the light. That doesn't mean I can just go back, even if I did know how. You can't keep my phone, I have to stay till you're done with it at least."

I smiled. Without my even trying, she was speaking of going home. Perfect. Though she had a point, we still did not know how to send her home. 

"We will speak of this in the morning," I said. "For now, If you will permit me to borrow your light,  I will see what can be seen. The ruins may be unstable, and dream come true or not, I do not see that you should be the one to explore them. T'will be a miracle if anything can be found though."

I did not explain to her that I was the closest I had ever been to believing in miracles.

It was a bare quarter of an hour before I returned, bearing only the strange black rectangle but no lance. In that time dusk had crept silently over the town. Most of the fires were out, and the only people out in the open were those still fighting the flames. 

"I saw something that might have been it," I said in answer to my companions' visible disappointment, "but could not reach it, with one hand holding the light. Tis half buried in a crevice formed by a collapsed wall." 

Tiffany beamed. "You need someone to reach it." 

"Or at least hold the light," I said, casting a wry glance her way. "Are you volunteering then?"

The rest of the building did not appear as though it would collapse further, at any rate. And I had the feeling that time was of the essence. Far better, now that I had seen it was stable, to have us all working together. 

When we reached the crevice, Tiffany held the light while I strained to reach the long thin object I could see. It remained out of reach, for I could extend my arm but not more than that and the lance, if that is what it was, was further away than it had first appeared. The crevice was not wide enough for my head and shoulders. Elder Donn had shorter arms than I did, and less chance of reaching it. That left Tiffany. Her slight figure would possibly be able to get further. I might not be able to hold the light for her, but if she could crawl in where I could not she might be able to hold it in one hand and pull it out with the other. Before I could even weigh the risks and decide if the crevice itself was stable enough to allow it, a great shadow spread out around us, blotting out all other shadows cast by the ruined walls. A rush of wind scattered dead leaves and bracken and even some of the rubble. Then there was a blast of heat and smoke wreathed around us, right before a horrible booming laughter echoed through the stony corridors. 

"What is this? One tough old warrior, encased in a fragile metal shell, one soft kirikman, and the juiciest morsel of all-- I believe I smell a maidchild. Have you come to placate me with the ancient custom of sacrificing the young one? Juicy she may be, but I will require more than that as tribute if you've come to pay your respects."

Tiffany dove into the crevice. I thought--hoped-- she was going to stay there until the danger was past, or better yet I hoped the way had opened for her to return home, but it was not to be: a heartbeat later I heard a grunt and with a heaving gasp she emerged with what might have been the Duraidd lance but was certainly not the shining thing I think Elder Donn had pictured being displayed there. "Here," she gasped. "Looks more like a javelin than a lance to me, but that's what we were seeing."

I didn't have time to sift meaning from her words. 

The dragon, Namhaid, I assumed, had not shown himself yet. Not that I was eager for the sight, but knowing the danger was lurking without being able to see it was even worse. Where would he strike first? I took the lance from Tiffany, which seemed awfully light compared with others I have handled,  and she took back her light. I would have cautioned her against using it, except the beast already knew where we were. Though perhaps I could change that, at least with regards to Tiffany's whereabouts. It looked as though the ancient tales of maidens given as tribute to stop a dragon's rampages might have been true after all. Or at least Namhaid had heard of them, and worse, developed an appetite.

"Lass, listen to me," I spoke in a whisper, hoping I would have time to say all I must, yet hoping also the dragon would not be able to hear. "Listen. You have done your task, and done it well. I am sure the God of All would have you get home, though it does not look like I will be able to see you to safety myself." 

As I spoke, Elder Donn darted to the side with a sharp cry, in time to avoid a massive sweeping claw that sprang out of the darkness between us. I had no time to finish asking Tiffany to go with the elder and find her way to safety. It was all I could do to shield her if possible from that searching claw and another blast of heat and smoke. Most of the wood had been consumed, but something nearby caught fire. A felled beam burned like a torch, illuminating a part of the beast. There was an impression of a serpentine neck, and a flash of jagged teeth as a huge head snapped at the retreating Elder Donn, who was staggering back to us before the flame went out again. 

"Are you hurt?" I put my arm out to steady him. So did Tiffany, and as soon as he regained his balance we made a dash deeper into the kirik. I hoped it would slow Namhaid but that he would not become so frustrated that he lashed out at the walls bringing it down upon us. 

"I am all right," Elder Donn wheezed as we fled. "Hit the ground hard, but the claw missed. 

"That could change if we don't split up," I said. "I want you to take Tiffany and get her deeper into the kirik. Go deep enough, and I don't think his head will fit in there, let alone the rest of him." 

Namhaid could not be in two places at once, and I intended to lead him elsewhere.

"Ah, you do not intend to surrender yet, you want to make this interesting."

At the sound of the monstrous voice I turned around and there he was, a dragon with scales the same red-gold color of the flames he had spouted, grinning and showing all his teeth, lazing right in the path we had just come from like an enormous cat. As if to enhance that image he yawned and stretched before speaking again. 

"By all means, trap yourselves in there. Make yourselves as comfortable as you like with no provisions. Come out when you are hungry, I will be watching every exit and waiting with an appetite that far outstrips your own. Or..." He paused, as if considering. "You could perhaps try running and hiding somewhere else while I hunt for your mounts. A horse, a pony, and a mule would whet my appetite nicely before I move on to delicacies such as yourselves."

I held the lance with a slackened grip, not wanting to draw his attention to it or for him to regard it as a threat. "Tell us, why should we surrender? None of us wish to hasten our deaths. On the other hand, if you were to allow the child to go free, then we could perhaps come to some agreement."

"Agreement?'" His laugh was a roar.  "No one bargains with me, I am Namhaid.  Death follows in my wake inevitably like night follows day. Your armor may not agree with my digestion, but neither will it save you. It cannot stop my claws or my teeth, let alone my flame." 

All the while I was creeping closer, hoping Tiffany and the Elder had long since disappeared into what was left of the kirik. If I could keep him talking, get close enough to ensure a direct hit to his chest, or (like my great great grandfather) his open mouth, then I might still perish but so would the beast.

His huge eye was on me. "Shall I roast you inside of your shell, and claw it off after you burn? Or, hmm.. perhaps I should crush you inside of it? After all, at  times I do prefer my meat fresh." 

With that last word he lashed out at me, and faster than I could blink the sharp smile vanished into a gaping maw. There was no time to think, barely time to aim. I hurled the lance with all my strength, but the beast closed his jaws too soon and it glanced off his teeth with no visible damage to them. I dove to the side just in time to avoid his snapping jaws, but his neck snaked around following me and nearly caught me before jerking away.

At first I didn't understand why he didn't catch me. I thought maybe he was toying with me as before, until his enraged roar sounded and then I saw a chunk of rubble fall to the ground. He shook his head, dislodging another, smaller chunk of rubble from somewhere around his head. He snapped at me again before I even had time to draw my sword, but a bright light struck him right in the eye, which made him rear back with a hiss. Something seemed wrong with that eye. I didn't have long to wonder if that chunk of rubble had hit it, or how vulnerable his eyes were, or who had thrown it. Elder Donn was pulling me out of reach of his teeth.

I ought to have resisted and used the distraction to find the lance, or if nothing else readied my sword, but it was happening so fast and before I knew it a burst of flame covered the ground where I had been standing, as well as a widening circle around it. The lance was gone. The wooden shaft would never have survived those flames. I felt the heat from where I was, and it was doubtful whether even the head would be of any use after that. 

"We have to get to cover," Elder Donn was saying. Tiffany thinks there's an underground space further in, we'll be safe from his fire there. And I think she has an idea." He added this last in before I could protest that I shouldn't be where either of them were. Shouldn't draw the dragon closer to them. 

Before the Duraidd lance had been brought up, my plan (if you could call my despairing lack of any other idea a plan) had been to try and catch the dragon napping and at least spy out any potential weaknesses that way, if nothing else. That wasn't going to happen now. I had to work with what I'd seen thus far. 

As we ducked through one of the doorways that still had an intact roof above it,  I saw that Namhaid had ceased his fiery tantrum for the time being, and was scanning the area, which meant he would be watching for me. Too late to back out now, if I wanted to keep him from discovering where the others had gone. I might as well plan in here as outside.

I was pondering how to use the vulnerability of it's eyes when Elder Donn led me down a set of stairs into a storeroom of some kind. Wooden shelves lined the walls.

"Did you bring him?" Tiffany's whisper came out of the dark, echoing only slightly. It felt like a close space, but didn't sound like one. She didn't wait for an answer before she said, in a wavering voice. "I think I might have found the way home."

As much as I had wanted her to get home, I was unprepared for this. Not that I was having second thoughts, I knew home was the safest place for her and from the moment she had stepped into my care I had chafed at the responsibility, believing as I had that it conflicted with the quest I was on. It was simply so abrupt, and what had been the purpose of the God of All in sending her then? And he had, somehow. I had just begun to be sure of that.

“We don’t know if that was actually the Duraidd lance,” she said. “There’s no way that was a tomb, anyway. So I was exploring down here when I felt a gust of wind from that archway,” she moved her light over a dark arch that looked no different from any other I had seen in the building. The same plain, solid stone. The wall of a tunnel could be seen by the light. Her implication was clear: she believed this was the way home. To me, however, it looked nothing like I would have expected a passage between worlds to look, and everything like an ordinary doorway.

As though sensing my doubt, she added, “it was just like before. The air wasn’t the same as what was around me. It was fresh, and warm; when I came here the first day, the wind I felt was cool and damp when it should have been warm.”

“There is one way to find out,” Elder Donn pointed out.

He likely meant for Tiffany to go through it, but if there was fresh air through that archway it could just as easily lead to the surface—and to the dragon. I would go through it myself before allowing Tiffany to go down that tunnel alone.

I’d hardly completed the thought before something shook the earth and Namhaid’s roar thundered down from somewhere above the beginning of the steps. Stone cracked, and I thought I could see the glow of flames reflecting off the uppermost stone step. The earth shook again and this time there was no mistaking it. Namhaid knew where we were.

I didn’t think twice about my decision. I simply stepped through, pulling Tiffany and the Elder along with me.

c>={====>

The wind gusted as we stepped through the archway, and swirled around us. Bright sunshine overwhelmed my senses, followed by the colors, sounds, and smells of a festival day. There was almost everything I would have expected to see from the fair Tiffany had mentioned coming from, and then some things I ought to have expected, considering this was not the same world as my own. Not a few of the folk who wandered about were attired in the same short tunics and rough blue trousers that Tiffany had first arrived in. Many were in stranger garb than that, though there were also many who were in garments more familiar to me.

As my eyes adjusted to the light, so bright compared with the underground passage from whence we had come, Tiffany motioned us forward. "Follow me," she said. "If we don't stick together, who knows what could happen." 

"Tis marvelous," Elder Donn said.

"You haven't seen the half of it," Tiffany muttered. "No time now, follow me."

And we did. I could take in the sights just as easily walking as standing still. We nearly got separated as a group of children with painted faces wandered between us, but Tiffany noticed and held back until they had passed. 

“Do you know where you are going?” I asked when we could join her again.

“Sure do. I was there this morning, my time.”

She wove determinedly through the crowds. It was all we could do to keep up.

“Are you going to tell us?” Elder Donn panted. He should have saved his breath, as Tiffany did not answer. Not until we were standing by a traveling blacksmith, giving a demonstration to a crowd of people in outlandish garb. I noticed one girl a little younger than Tiffany with a cloak that had a pin shaped like a lion’s head, a knife at her belt, and a small glass phial at her side. With her there was a young man with the horns of a goat sprouting from his curly head. 

“Wait here a minute,” Tiffany said. “I need to check something.”

I objected to this, but she was already gone.

“Cool costumes,” the goat-man said. He nodded to my sword. “Looks authentic. Surprised they didn’t make you peace tie it.”

There didn’t seem to be a suitable response, though he seemed pleasant enough. I inclined my head to show I’d heard him, and glanced to Elder Donn, who shrugged back helplessly. The goat-man had already turned back to watch the smith, and that’s when Tiffany returned in a breathless rush. “Come on.”

 She towed us away. 

“Where are we going?” 

“We’re going to get you a weapon.”

We ducked around and off to the side of the area where the smith was working. There were many people here as well, but all had their eyes fixed on the tournament that was taking place. Knights with strange names were being announced. They were taking their places, with lances much longer and heavier looking than ones I was used to. From my vantage point, I could not read the devices on their shields, but their colors were easily seen. The more so because their steeds were fully caparisoned. One with the tinctures of azure and argent, the other with or and sable. I watched as they charged one another but Tiffany pulled my attention away before I could see the results.

“We need to get closer. The weapons are all going to be down there.”

She nodded to a rack sitting fairly near the tent of a lord and lady. The lady had given her favor to the knight in azure and argent. 

The crowd cheered at something, but I never saw what. We moved to the weapons rack, all of us by unspoken agreement moving and speaking quietly so as not to draw undue attention.

“If you could choose any of these to fight the dragon, which would you take?”

This was her plan? 

“I can’t simply take a weapon that doesn’t belong to me, lass. I’ll not turn thief even in such dire straits.”

Tiffany sighed. “I thought you might say that. Listen, I guarantee you if they knew what it was for no one would stop you. If you could convince them you weren’t a lunatic, I mean. Which is why we can’t stop to try. We don’t know how time is passing while we’re here.”

I didn’t have time to parse her words before she added, “Anyway we’re not stealing it, we’re borrowing it. 

“Borrowing it without permission.”

“But with every intention of bringing it back.”

Her smile was bright. She assumed it would be possible.

“I think,” I said slowly, not sure how to let her down, “that they would mind very much if one of these weapons was incinerated beyond repair.”

“I plan on returning it in working order,” she said with a grin. “I have another idea. But I can’t really explain it, you’ll just have to trust me.”

‘You are not coming back with me, Theophania. I mean it. It’s too dangerous. Elder, tell her. Please.” I turned a pleading look to Elder Donn, who was looking at the weaponry. He was touching a lance that was much more like what I was accustomed to, the sharp head of which was polished to a shine. It was a thing of beauty, surely a weapon for a hero like my great great grandfather had been.

“This is the one. Take it, Sir Uriah. Take this one. If you doubt you can return it, I will leave the price of it in its place.” He pulled out his money pouch and opened it to reveal several silver pennies. 

I hesitated. There was an odd note to his voice. He was like one who walks in his sleep and speaks of what he sees.

Tiffany peered at the coins. “That’s probably way more than enough,” she said. “Is that real silver?”

Elder Donn ignored the question, but the odd tone in his voice was gone when he said, “this is the one I saw in my dream. If I leave the price of a good weapon so that it could be replaced if needed, will you accept it?”

I hesitated. Trusting a dream weapon, untested, made about as much sense as trusting the one we had found at the kirik, and look how that had turned out? 

“You’ve seen my world,” Tiffany said. “You have to believe it now.”

“Believe what?”

“That Someone Else was in charge of bringing me to your world. Someone who’s bigger than both.”

I already believed the God of All had sent her. When that had changed, I could not have said. Another denial leapt ready to my tongue, but I wavered. Trust in the lance was not what she was asking of me.

“Please,” Tiffany said. “I don’t know how much time we have!”

She could be right about the time, and with no way of knowing what was happening back home I made another swift decision.

“I will repay you if I can, Elder, but yes. I will take it. Tiffany, if you will show me the way back, I believe your part in this is done.”

Tiffany grinned. “We’ll see.”

At my request, Elder Donn left the entire pouch, despite Tiffany’s protestations that it “really was more than enough.” I would far rather pay double it’s worth if possible since I was unable to give the warrior to whom it belonged the courtesy of a request.

On the way back, she bade us wait by the smithy again. “Just for a minute,” she said. “Don’t move.”

Well, it wasn’t like we had a choice. 

When she was gone, Elder Donn said in a low murmur “I will help you persuade her to stay. I believe you are right that her part is done. Surely with both of us in agreement she cannot argue. ” 

That was a relief, that I would not have to argue with the two of them. “Thank you, Elder.”

The wait was indeed brief, then she returned carrying something in both arms, wrapped in the folds of her cloak that I could not see, save for a flash of bright scarlet.

After that she plowed through the crowds, and I had little time to wonder about her plan before we made it back to the place we had entered. A different arch, she said, than she had come from. How then did we know it would let us through? I supposed we had no choice but to try.

I stepped closer and a gentle wind swirled past me, around me, as though beckoning. It was just as before. I relaxed and turned to say farewell to Tiffany, and saw the wind tugging at her cloak as well. She clutched the object she was holding tighter to her and dashed through the arch before I could say a word. I reached out to stop her, but when the wind gusted again all I caught was the hem of her cloak. Elder Donn caught hold of me, but we were all pulled through the archway. The wind died abruptly, along with the noise from the faire and the light from a summer day. It was pitch black, and colder, but stuffy. We were back under the kirik.

Elder Donn sniffed the air. “Something is burning.”

No sooner had he said this than something fell above us with a crash. A glow of fire illuminated the wall of stone and revealed the same stairway we had descended earlier, before traveling to Tiffany’s world. The entrance had been enlarged, now rubble covered the steps.

As much as I had hoped we had not returned to the exact same place, we had. And it seemed we were trapped. Unless…

Tiffany shone her light around the room. Behind us, the tunnel which had been a doorway to another world now doubtless led elsewhere, even though it looked the same. Perhaps deeper under the kirik. Perhaps up to the surface. I would have rather been able to find out where it led before sending them into it, but there was no time.

“Elder, take Tiffany down that tunnel.”

Elder Donn gave a single nod. I more than half expected Tiffany to protest, and she did open her mouth to say something, but another crash and burst of flame interrupted her. The earth shook again and something fell down the stairs with a crack.

“Go on,” I said. “If the God of All wills it, I will follow.”

“I’m counting on it, but just in case.”

She set down her bundle and wrapped her arms around my waist.

Then before I could react she picked up her bundle and followed Elder Donn through the archway.  I gripped the lance and turned to face the fire. 

If the God of All wills it. I had spoken confidently, but the more I thought about my last attempt the more I realized I would have to let Namhaid get a lot closer before I tried another throw. Or would even that work? As the glow of fire faded and Namhaid still did not appear, I realized I had no guarantee of enough light to see by. Tiffany’s light would be useful right now.

The next sound I heard was not a crash, but a rumbling laugh.

“Little warrior, I thought you had hidden. How delightful. Do you think you can stand against me?”

The reflection of flame on the walls had dimmed, but it was enough to see the serpentine shape creeping down through the doorway.

If I could keep him talking, I might stand a chance. 

“How could I hope to hide from a powerful creature such as yourself? You would have caught my scent. No, it is better for me to face reality, come what may.” 

I edged towards the wall. How keen is a dragon’s night vision?

There was a hiss, and a burst of flame. One of the shelves caught fire and suddenly I didn’t have to worry about light anymore.

Namhaid stretched himself to his full height. By the firelight I could see the armored scales glittering all along his lithe body. Even his chest, though not armored exactly like the rest of him, had a thick, knobby hide. A shot from a ballista might be able to pierce that hide, but not a throw from me.

“Face reality?” Namhaid fairly purred. “Face your death, you mean. Yes, do take a good look at me. That twig you carry will burn as easily as the last one.”

I took another step, but forward this time. “Truly, on my own I have no hope of assailing you. If I ever believed it was possible I would not be so foolish now.” 

And yet here I was. Closer, closer.

“You flatter me. What do you hope to gain by it? Not your life, surely. Nor that of the kirikman, or the little maiden. Where are they? Did they leave you to face your death alone?”

“He’s not alone.”

Elder Donn’s voice was accompanied by the brightest light from Tiffany’s device we had yet seen. Namhaid hissed and reared his head away from the light. He opened his jaws. Any moment he would let loose a burst of flame… I had to stop him. This was the opportunity I had been waiting for, except now he writhed too far away and remained in motion. One throw was all I would have, and I was sure Namhaid knew it, the way he moved. Now his tail flashed around, narrowly missing me. Now his wings. Still the light shone brighter, and the beast arced his head up in the air. The flames reached to the ceiling, but as he began to direct them toward us, something white and foamy shot directly into his mouth. I had not noticed Tiffany creeping from the mouth of the tunnel, but the white foam sprayed from the scarlet cylinder she carried. So that was the contraption she had brought from her world. 

Namhaid retched and spewed foam but no flames followed. 

He roared and lashed out, but she jumped back out of reach.

“Tiffany! To me!”

She ran to me, still holding that scarlet cylinder, and Namhaid’s eyes turned to us.

Aim for the eyes? Or try for the open mouth again?

I wished Elder Donn had seen more in his dream. Where was he? I had lost track of him after Tiffany reappeared.

“No more games, little warrior,” Namhaid rasped. “Lay down your weapons, and I will kill you quickly and that is the best you can hope for.”

If he could have roasted us, I was sure he would have by now. I felt the smallest spark of hope rekindle, but still I could not be secure in my aim with such a small target as his eyes, and he still did not open his mouth wide enough for me to aim down his throat.

I was not about to lower my weapons, but Tiffany caught me off guard when she laughed outright. 

“I always wondered if a fire extinguisher would work on a dragon’s fire. It looks like it did. No one at home will believe me though, and that’s a pity.”

If she meant to provoke the dragon it worked. With a roar he leapt at us, jaws wide as though to swallow us whole, or perhaps I’d been wrong about his fire. I took my chance—God of All, guide my aim!—and hurled the lance with all my strength straight into his open mouth. At the same moment Tiffany let loose another stream of foam. I leapt back, dragging Tiffany with me, as his jaws crashed into the place we had been moments before, driving the lance further in. 

Namhaid did not move again. 

The blade had struck home, and the strength of my throw had been aided by the sheer force and impetuosity of his own attack: between the two, the lance was lodged deep in his head, and now blood pooled from his nostrils instead of the smoke that had so recently been there. I felt an impulse to shield Tiffany from the sight, but she had already turned away and was running to Elder Donn, who we could barely see by the light of the smoldering shelf. He was crawling awkwardly towards Tiffany’s device, which was askew on the ground at a distance from him. The bright light was gone.

“Are you all right?” She asked. “What happened?”

“His tail. Knocked it right out.”

Somewhere in Namhaid’s thrashing when faced with the light, his tail had crashed into the device, knocking it neatly from Elder Donn’s hand. He cradled his wrist as he went on to explain how he had dropped to the ground to avoid that tail knocking his head.

“I fear ‘tis broken,” he said. Then flexed his wrist and winced..

“If it was broken, you couldn’t do that,” I pointed out. “Does it hurt much? It could be sprained.”

“Not this,” Elder Donn said, muffling a laugh. “This stings a bit. I meant the light. It went out when I lost my grip.”

Tiffany hugged him. “That doesn’t matter. You’re safe. I saw you go down and I was worried.”

“Speaking of worried…” I raised my eyebrows at her.  The effect may have been lost in the gloom of the fading fire, for she grinned up at me and then scampered to get her device. 

The light worked just fine, belying Elder Donn’s concern. 

“You should get the lance out while I still have some battery life left,” she said. “That light was really bright, I bet it used a lot and I don’t have a way to charge it.”

Battery life? Charge it? The device had been battered, certainly, but nothing else she said made sense.“You’re speaking nonsense again, young lady.”

But she was already away, the light bobbing a little as she strode towards the dragon’s body. 

“Eugh, it’s going to be a mess. We’re gonna have to clean it really well before we can return it, if that’s what you still want to do.”

“Stop changing the subject.” But she did have a point, that there was no need to continue on down here. I went over and tried pulling out the lance. It was wedged in tightly, and there was little room to brace myself to pull, but in the end I managed it. She was right again; it was a mess, and now so was I.

“There’s a well up above ground,” Tiffany said. “We can clean you up there.”

We picked our way over the rubble from the dragon’s rage, and ascended the stairs. The smell of smoke was still on the wind, but the  majority of the fires had been extinguished. 

I had been about to return to the subject of her putting herself into danger by returning to face Namhaid instead of fleeing with Elder Donn as I had ordered, but the approach of a group of townsfolk, armed with scythes and staves and the like, took priority. At their head was a sturdily built older man in robes much like Elder Donn’s, who carried a large pike of the kind that stopped cavalry charges when men stood together in formation with them. 

Upon seeing us emerge, the elder slackened his grip on his pike and rested on it as he might on a staff. 

“You’re alive! We saw the beast descend after you and feared the worst.” He took in the mess on the lance and on myself. “The dragon?”

“The beast is dead,” Elder Donn said in a clear ringing voice so as to be heard by the entire group. “Slain by Sir Uriah, an instrument of the God of All, aided by a traveler sent by Him between worlds.

Within moments, it seemed the whole town knew. More had stayed than I realized, and many came to thank us. Tiffany looked abashed at the praise they heaped on her. I myself tried to direct more of it away from me and towards the others, (as Elder Donn had taken none of his due credit,) and to the God of All, who had been the guiding hand behind all our success. At some point messengers were sent out to try and catch up to those who had fled to let them know it was safe to return. 

They feasted us that evening; a greater celebration surely had not been seen in that town since my grandfather’s grandfather had slain Breunachd. More so since none of us were greatly injured. One of those who had stayed was a healer, who was able to look at Elder Donn’s wrist, which had started to swell, and wrap it with a poultice of knitbone. A light sprain, possibly, which would keep him from chronicling our adventures for a time. (Thus I consented to write my part in it in full as the reader can see, lest anyone forget the true story.) Tiffany and I had escaped unscathed, thanks be to the God of All. 

Our mounts had not strayed far. Even in his fright Riastrad would not have run all the way home to his stable, the mule had enough sense to flee only until the danger was past, and the pony had stuck by them. 

Housing for the night was easily arranged, but it was late before we were away to our beds. Many plans had to be made. My duty was to return to the king straight away, and I intended for Elder Donn and Tiffany both to accompany me. We would stop at the kirik of Carranburn first, of course, and speak with Father Beithe, but Elder Donn had played no small part in our victory and I would see that recognized, alongside Tiffany and her part. According to Elder Donn it had been long since another Traveller had come to the kingdom. For that alone she would have been welcomed and celebrated by King Arlan, even if she had not been so essential to the success of the quest.

Elder Donn agreed to accompany us, though he plainly cared nothing for the recognition of his part, bent as he was on plying Tiffany with questions about her world and all we had seen there. She would answer just as gladly, which only fueled Elder Donn’s excitement. This went on for some time before I intervened, seeing her stifled yawns. I sent her off to the the healer’s house and the soft cot that awaited her there. 

I followed for a ways, as I intended to check on Riastrad before heading to my own bed, but as she neared the doorway she froze and called out to me.

“Do you feel that wind?” she turned again to me. 

“Wind?” The night was mostly still. A little stuffy what with the lingering smoke that still rose from ruined and half ruined buildings, even though the fires were out. 

At least it was still for me. For her, though I could not feel it, something stirred her cloak and her hair, drawing them towards the doorway.

“I think…  it’s time for me to go home,” she said. 

Bare hours earlier I would have welcomed that news. Now? After the danger had passed? It seemed unfair to not show her the best our kingdom had to offer as a reward for her part in the dragon’s defeat. If she left now, she would pass right into legend, indistinguishable from the tale of of the wood nymph who had given King Talvar his sword and shown him the key to winning his kingdom. 

“I’m sorry for worrying you all that time,” she said, filling the silence that stretched as I tried to think of something to say. “And for not trying to explain my plan.” She shuffled her feet. “Maybe you could’ve made a better one if I’d shown you what the fire extinguisher could do.”

I sighed and shook my head. “I don’t suppose I gave you much reason to expect that I would’ve trusted your plan. And the God of All surely kept you, which was my main concern.”

“Kept us.” Tiffany said.

And it was truer than she realized. I had started out with no real hope for myself. It was only beginning to sink in that it was over, with a far better outcome than I had envisioned. “Indeed.”

A wistful smile crossed her face. “Will you tell Elder Donn I said thank you?”  

“Wait. Wait here a moment, don’t go yet. Let me get Elder Donn, it will not take long and he will want to send you off with a blessing.”

She cast a glance back at the doorway, and nibbled at her lower lip, but nodded.

Elder Donn wasn’t far, and when I said that Tiffany needed to say farewell he understood what I meant at once and hastened to follow me back. He still carried the lance in hand, now clean and shining as before, and though I reckoned the kirik would be glad to keep it in memory of the deliverance from Namhaid’s wrath, I thought it best to give Tiffany the chance to return it to its rightful owner.

She wrinkled her forehead when she heard my intent. “What about the silver?”

“Keep it. I will repay Elder Donn. Goodness knows I can’t repay the debt I owe you, as you probably saved my life—even though you ignored my instructions to do it, I’m not so bent on chiding you for it as I was earlier.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” she said.

“Well, I owe whatever warrior this belongs to his own weapon back, and in truth it still pangs my conscience that we did not ask permission to borrow it first.”

Tiffany grinned. “I keep telling you, slaying a dragon is the coolest thing that weapon has ever done. The owner would be honored. If he knew.”

“Coolest?” Elder Donn asked, puzzled but always willing to expand his knowledge of her dialect.

She waved a hand. “Best. Most awesome. Wrong word, sorry. But I’ll take it back for you if you like. And maybe someday I’ll be able to bring the silver back to you. Of course if I ever get the chance to come back I will.“

She looked up at us, bright-eyed, but smiling so that I nearly missed the tears in the corners of her eyes. She surely remembered what Elder Donn had said about return visits being rare, and already she had returned once. But then, nothing about our people traveling to another world has ever been recorded, and Elder Donn and I had done so. Who could say what else might be possible? Not I, not anymore.

I knelt in front of her. There was one thing I would not have her in doubt of.  “Theophania, do not worry about returning the silver, but if you ever can return to see us in less perilous times, I would like that very much. Fare well, wherever you fare.” 

“Fare well,” she echoed. Then she put her arms around me, as she had done when I had sent her off down the tunnel. This time, though I was still startled, I had time to return her embrace. She tightened her grip before releasing me and turning to Elder Donn, who was the better prepared for her.

“Oh kay. I really do have to go. I’ll miss you both.”

Elder Donn ceremoniously placed the lance in her hands.  “As we will miss you. Go with the blessing of the God of All, and if ever you may return to us you will be most welcome.”

Even holding the lance, she managed a more perfect courtesy than she had when I first met her. Which must have reminded her that she still wore the green wool dress and russet cloak. “Oh!” She unfastened the cloak and handed it to Elder Donn. “I’m sure someone else will need this more than I will.” She fingered the skirt of her dress, a sheepish look on her face. “I left my own clothes back at your kirik,” she told him. “The dress was more comfortable without them, and I did think I’d be coming back. I know they’ll be strange to you, but hopefully they can replace this for someone my size?”

Elder Donn laughed. “We will put them to good use, never fret about it.”

She grinned wide. “Wait till my friends see it. It’s not going to be proof of what happened to me on it’s own, but it’s something that would be hard to explain away.” She smoothed her hair out of her face, which, though I could feel no wind, wind appeared to be tugging at hair and skirts and growing more insistent every moment. She turned to face the doorway, but cast one last look back at us. She said nothing more, but waved a hand and smiled.. Then turned and walked through the doorway. The shadowed darkness of the doorway swallowed her, but for a brief instant I thought I saw bright sunlight beyond and caught a hint of the sounds of a festival day before all was dark and silent again. I knew without a step forward that that doorway would only lead me to the inside of the healer’s house if I stepped through.

“Well,” Elder Donn sighed. “That is a pity that she had to go so soon, don’t you think?”

I did not answer, but I knew that he knew I was also disappointed, rather than relieved that she was no longer my responsibility, as well as grateful that she had come after all.  It was the closest he came to telling me he told me so.

Here I end my story. May the God of All use it as he will.

Epilogue.

Sir Uriah agreed to record the whole adventure for us, and so long was it in coming that my wrist was almost fully healed by the time we received it back at the Kirik of Carranburn. He had grumbled a little about his insufficiency for the task, as was his way, but in the end he relented without much pressure. True, I could have dictated what I had seen to another here at the Kirik, but I was not there when Tiffany appeared and that was a key point we wanted for our records, along with the very moment of the dragon’s defeat as I did not get an unobstructed view. 

For one who claimed to be unused to the task of the chronicler, Sir Uriah has a good memory and a fair hand with words. (Indeed I dare say he did as well as others who have had more practice and have written of the Travellers, even if those tales may have been written faster—but there he says I am biased because I have seen Namhaid with my own eyes and so his words have only to draw up the memory before my own mind makes up the difference. I will let Father Beithe be the judge.)

Now that my wrist has healed I can add a detail or two that Sir Uriah would not have added even if his tale had extended beyond Tiffany’s departure. The rewards that King Arlan bestowed upon him for his success in delivering the kingdom were great, both riches and honor, but as for the money Sir Uriah sent much of it to the kirik of Kynvan to be used in the repairs and rebuilding of their town. Deep under the rubble of the collapsed side of the kirik, they found the tomb of Sir Rioghan, and in the tomb they found a shining lance. The Duraidd lance had indeed survived, but as the God of All is not bound by the legends men create, it seems to have pleased Him to use something else in the defeat of Namhaid. Kynvan’s priest offered the lance back to Sir Uriah, who keeps it not only as the heirloom it is, but in memory of his own adventure.

#inklingschallenge #Team Chesterton #Genre: intrusive fantasy #theme: stewardship #theme: mystery #Team Lewis #genre: portal fantasy #Imagery: Light #imagery: fire #imagery: bread #Imagery: wind #Story: complete #Inklingtober #The Tiffany Problem #Inklings challenge #Covering my bases so bear with a few extra tags #Inklings challenge 2022 #Inklings challenge 2023 #WOOOOHOOOOOO SHE’S DONE #Over 14k words and just under two years to completion #This is atypical of my writing speed. Usually it’s slower. #I’d like to thank the academy… #XD #Seriously though the writers Calvinball league deserves a shout out as well #‘Specially my dear Holmes for the encouragement on my horse writing insecurities

[inklings-challenge]

The Eagle and Child: Opening Day

The Inklings Challenge has started! You’ve received your team assignment, the creative juices are flowing, and you’re either brimming with ideas or desperately trying to find some. Like the original Inklings, this Challenge needs a place to discuss writing, so roughly-weekly posts (named after the famed Inklings pub, of course) will give people a chance to talk about their progress through the Challenge.

On these opening days of the challenge, let’s discuss how it’s going. If you like, you can share things like:

Which team are you on?

Which genre are you considering tackling?

Is this similar to what you usually write?

Do you have a story idea yet? If so, care to share anything about it?

Which themes are you considering incorporating into your story?

Are any other story sparks–pictures, events, genre, themes, etc.–coming to mind as something you might want to use to inspire your story?

Are you excited? Nervous? Terrified? Confident? Some combination of new and exciting emotions?

Are there any ideas/types of stories that you'd like to see from the other teams? Care to share any ideas/suggestions/wish lists?

This is purely for fun, so share whatever you feel like sharing, or keep your secrets to yourself. However you feel like engaging.

Welcome to the Inklings Challenge! Have fun!

#inklingschallenge #the eagle and child #team lewis #team tolkien #team chesterton

[siena-sevenwits]

Inklings Challenge - Huzzah!

I'm Team Chesterton - here's to twenty-one heady days of wild adventure and fantasy in THIS world! Re-enchantment, here we come!

I made a playlist of Songs About Storytelling for all of us who'll be inkling the next few weeks. Even if you find just one song you like on it, I hope it will add to our collective encouragement.

#inklingschallenge #team chesterton #team tolkien #team lewis #neverending storytellers #music #Spotify

[clari-writes]

The Prince

[ A Cinderella Retelling | Wordcount: 4006 Words | Estimated Reading Time: 20 minutes ]

A sovereign ruler must be, above all, a man of duty and reason. Prince Dominic knows this, and lives heart and soul by the edict. Grasps full well the consequences of what could happen if he didn’t.

So why is it that when he asks the Captain of the Guard if they found her, his voice catches with hope?

“No, Your Majesty,” Captain Bernard says. “We managed to track her as far as the Bridge of the Diwata, but after that, it was as if her carriage turned into thin air. We can only suspect it was magic.”

There is a warning laced into the word magic, both in the captain’s tone and Dominic’s own instinctive understanding. The fae folk were unruly; unpredictable; dangerous. While they had marked themselves as enemies only to nation’s former colonizers, the Spanish, Dominic knew better, as the heir to the Islands’ third-generation monarchy, to count on them as friends. He should feel relieved that the lady cloaked in their torrid enchantments vanished without a trace.

Better, he tells himself and his sinking heart, in the long run.

He clears his throat. “Thank you, Captain. Is that all?”

“Well,” Captain Bernard says, and then hesitates.

Prince Dominic barely restrains himself from pouncing on the man. “What is it?” he asks with deep patience.

“We found what we believe is something of hers, Your Majesty. A slipper.”

“A slipper?”

“Made of glass.” The captain nods at one of his men, and a guard liveried in green and gold moves forward to place a glimmering object in front of the prince. “It was at the base of the bridge. We cannot know for sure it was hers, but-“

“It’s hers,” says Prince Dominic hollowly. He remembers now, in one of the more lively dances of the ball, when the lady kicked her feet in the air he’d noticed in an instant how they sparkled.

Do you have jewels encrusted on your toes? he’d teased.

She’d replied with a dazzling smile. Something like that.

 “If you forgive me, Your Majesty,” Captain Bernard says. “May I inquire as to the urgency of finding this girl?”

“Pardon?”

“If she’d stolen something significant, perhaps, during the hours you were alone,” the captain prompts. Dominic flushes, even though there is no rebuke in the captain’s words. “If so, I’ll organize a search party straight away.”

Do it, Dominic’s heart sings. The prince bites his tongue. Takes another deep breath.

“That won’t be necessary,” he says. “She isn’t important.”

_ _ _

So why is he paying a visit to the royal glassmaker, shoe in hand?

“No doubt about it, Your Majesty,” Doña Rosaline says, after taking a close look at the slipper through her famed magnificent magnifying glass. She places the pristine object in front of him with a mixture of awe and fear. “That’s the fae’s work. No human hands could have produced something as fine as this.”

“Is it cursed?” he asks. He’s half convinced himself it’s so.

“Gifted, more like,” she replies, stopping his errant wonderings in their tracks.

“What do you mean?”

“Your lady seems to have won the favor of a fairy,” the artisan replies.

“I’ve never heard of-“

“Neither have I, Your Grace, but the proof is right here in front of us.” She gestures to the slipper. “You cannot force the fae to create. You have heard of the case of Count Floribel-“

“I have,” Dominic says with the wince. It was years ago, back when the Islands’ revolution still consisted of whispers in the dark. Count Floribel, their appointed ruler, had actually managed to capture a fairy – rumor has it, with a desperate native’s help, after the noble promised to curb his family’s debt – and he had demanded of the creature to provide the secrets of the yet-unconquered mountainfolk’s intricately woven designs.

In response, the fairy blew themself up. There is still a crater where the count’s mansion had been.

“Well, there you go. We’d have to rule that out. The other option, then, is to strike a deal with the fae, and of course there are records of that, such as the royal crown. But, Your Majesty,” Doña Rosaline says with the shake of her head, “I cannot imagine what your lady could have traded for a fairy to craft something so unique, it would only find its fit and perfection in her wearing it.”

“How could that be so?”

“The glass,” Doña Rosaline says, “Is not still. Not when you look at it closely enough. It ripples and bends at one’s touch—it is truly quite remarkable. I can only imagine what it would look like on the feet of the one it was meant for. And if rumors are to believed,” she continues, “the shoes’ beauty weren’t even the most marvelous aspect of the lady herself.”

Dominic can’t help himself. He smiles. “I can confirm that.”

“Oh?” Doña Rosaline voice takes on a teasing lilt. “And how would you describe the young lady, dear prince?”

“She was kind,” he says, almost unthinkingly. There are many things he could have said of her, but her kindness is what lingers in his mind the most, is what made her beauty more revelation than ornamentation. His first breathtaking sight of the lady was her descent down the staircase in all her gorgeous glory. His second was her approaching him with a platter of food and not a whit of guile in her eyes, saying shyly that he looked like he was hungry. She’d been right; he hadn’t had a bite to eat all day out of nervousness.

“Will you look for her?”

“What?” he says, snapping out of his reverie.

“I assumed that was why you were asking,” Doña Rosaline says. She is grinning. “I wasn’t at the ball myself, Your Grace, but I’ve heard what others are saying of you, and I’m glad, if you forgive the presumption. After everything that happened with your sister, I am truly happy that you’ve found-“

“I think you misunderstand, Doña,” he says, holding up his hand. “I was concerned about her, is all.”

“Concerned?”

“When it occurred to me that the fae might have had her in their thrall,” he says. 

There were other things, as well. Little things, like how she flinched at the chamberlain’s loud voice, how she startled when he first raised his hand to lead her through a dance, as if she expected to be struck instead. Like how she recognized his hunger because she was clearly starving just the same.

“But that’s no matter,” he says. “The lady must be fine, if she has a fairy looking after her.” That ought to quell his persistent little anxieties over whether she is eating enough.

“Perhaps,” Doña Rosaline says, but she looks doubtful.

“You disagree?”

“If the fairy isn’t tricking her,” Doña Rosaline says, “then they are gifting her something that she needs.”

“She needs little, then, if all that they gave her was access to a party all noble families are invited to,” he points out.

“Perhaps,” she says again.

“She did not ask for help,” Prince Dominic says.

“Did you offer?” she asks pointedly.

“Of course.”

The old artisan raises her eyebrows. “And she refused?”

“In a manner of speaking,” he says. He is fairly certain that running away counted as refusal. “Aside from that, she had every opportunity to ask for assistance and she did not. Coupled with what you’ve told me, I can only conclude that there is no imminent threat that looms over her.”

“Danger can take many forms, Your Grace.”

“I know.” Oh, how he knew. He can feel the judging eyes of the Spanish from beyond the seas, staring greedily at him and his kingdom. “Yet I cannot drop everything to save one damsel, Doña. Not if she didn’t ask for it.”

“True enough, young prince,” Doña Rosaline allows. “But aren’t there other reasons why you would wish to look for her?”

The way she made him laugh uproariously, while remaining utterly unmoved by his puns. The warmth her presence and conversation brought him. The hours they spent, the first time he could remember he felt truly carefree since his parents died and his relationship with his sister turned sour.

“None that matter, Doña,” he says finally.

_ _ _

So why is it that, three weeks after the ball, she is all that he can think about?

He refused to let it show, of course. He had councils to attend—ambassadors to welcome—marriage contracts to assess. He needed an alliance with a country large enough to keep Spain at bay – a grand task, considering the few countries who were willing to even recognize the Islands as a nation, rather than a land full of savagery and witchcraft – and his hand in marriage is the simplest way to ensure the fidelity of that alliance without putting his kingdom in danger of another invasion.

Though who is he fooling—they are always in danger of another invasion. Which is why you must redouble your efforts in finding allies, he tells himself.

Which is why he cannot shirk his responsibilities, cannot lose one of the most precious cards he has to play in the game of politics, even for the beautiful, kind, fae-favored girl.

He is trapped.

“Brother?”

He starts, sending the papers he’d been staring at scattering across the floor. If he was not Crown Prince, he thinks he would have liked to swear like a sailor.

Instead, he inhales deep through his nose and stands up, all decorum. “Sister Regine,” he says. He makes sure his tone is firmly under control. “Why were you not announced by my chamberlain?”

“I was. You were the one still gaping at your papers like an idiot,” she replies bluntly.

Not for the first time, Prince Dominic wonders how the sisters of Saint Sofia – an order that was known to prioritize gentleness, peace, and humility – deal with his sharp-tongued older sibling. He supposes there are a lot of prayers for patience involved. He sighs, rifling a hand through his long hair. “The papers…”

“I’ll help you organize them,” she says, already stooping to the ground.

“You’re not supposed to be able to read them anymore,” he says tiredly.

“Or what? You’ll clap me in a tower again?” She smirks. “I guarantee that would be more comfortable than my room at the priory.”

“Only because you could convince Captain Bernard to bring you anything you wanted.”

“He always had a sweet spot for me,” she preens.

It is more than that, both of them knew. There is no etiquette in how to deal with a queen turned prisoner turned novitiate, especially since she is still technically the queen until she takes her final vows.

But they do not talk about that.

Her long habit makes a pool of coarse blue cloth around her as she bundles papers into her arms. “Anyway, Your Majesty,” she says, all razor-sharp exaggeration at the honorific, “That is not why I am here.”

“You didn’t just want to see me?” His hurt is not entirely feigned. He grabs a receipt that has somehow lodged itself between Pinuno: From Datu to Constitutional Monarchy and 1670: La Revolución de Las Islas.

“Heavens, no. Do you understand how hard it is to get here?”

“I had taken pains to ensure you always have access to me,” he says. Despite everything.

She shoots him a look. “You are not the problem, brother. The prioress loathes having me leave the grounds—for good reason, I suppose. No matter.”

“Yes, matter,” he says. He is fighting to keep his breath even. “You’re supposed to be able to-“

“Not the reason I’m here,” she sings.

“Fine,” he says. “Fine. Why are you here, Regine?”

“Haven’t you heard, dear brother?” she asks. “My sisters are a-buzz with the rumors, and you must know how difficult it is to get them to gossip—which means the entire kingdom must be talking it. Apparently, our very own honorable, practical, darling Prince Dominic is in-“

“I am not in love!” he snaps.

Regine pauses, her jaw slackening. Then a truly evil grin spreads across her mouth. “I was going to say,” she says, “in search for a mystery girl. But that works, too.”

Prince Dominic’s cheeks burn. “I am not in love,” he enunciates carefully, though he knows it’s hopeless. As far as Regine is concerned, he has already dug his grave. “And I am not looking for her.”

“Why not?” she asks airily.

He splutters. “Why not?” he repeats. “Why not?”

When it comes to duty, they have always been so many worlds apart.

“You still haven’t grown out of babbling when you’re confused, hm?”

“Because I am required to marry a princess!” he yells. He stands up, papers forgotten, even breathing be damned. “Because I am the de facto ruler of this kingdom and whether I like it or not, whether I want to or not, every aspect of my life must be devoted to ensuring its security! Because I am the only one left,” he says, and his voice breaks, “and if I don’t do it, no one else will.”

Then he sobs outright, a hand covering his eyes.

_ _ _

The first and last time he’d spoken this truth that he had long buried in his heart was the night of the ball.

He hadn’t meant to unbridle his tongue. It hadn’t been his parents’ fault that they’d died, after all, and his sister—well, it was hard on her, turning from the blithe heir to the burdened head of the family overnight. It had been understandable, that she hadn’t wanted to face it. He had been the one who had chosen to act. He had taken the responsibility, and so consequently had to face it forever alone.

So why did he find himself spilling his guts to this beautiful stranger?

It was unseemly. It was embarrassing.

But she was so very easy to talk to; and when he began to apologize for his impropriety, she stoppered his flow of words with a gaze full of understanding. “I know what it’s like,” she said, “to be the one left behind and alone.” Her eyes lowered, her cheeks pink. “To be angry about it, sometimes.”

They were out on the balcony—far from the prying eyes and ears of the court, though he knew there would be whispers once they noticed his absence. For once, he hadn’t a care about that. Just as he hadn’t a care or thought about anything when he took the lady’s hand. “Not alone anymore, I hope.”

“Not right now, at least.” She twined their fingers together.

“Not ever again!” he declared recklessly, though he knew he wasn’t in any position to make promises like that. “Tell me about yourself now, lady stranger. We’ve spent so long in each other’s company and you’ve refused to tell me a thing. Though to be fair, I suppose I’ve barely asked.” He shook his head at himself. “What kind of prince am I?”

He’d expected a bump of his shoulder, a roll of her eyes. Instead, the lady’s smile faded. “Prince?”

“Yes?”

“You’re the prince?”

“Yes, of course—you didn’t know?” She had arrived late and had missed the proclamation, and they had dispensed with calling each other by any name as a game, but he hadn’t believed she didn’t know who he was that entire time. Hadn’t known she was getting to know him as Dominic, rather than the prince. He was flabbergasted.

And she looked devastated. She pulled her hand away from his. “If you were just a noble, maybe,” she murmured to herself. “But a prince…”

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

She forced a smile on her face. “Nothing, Your Majesty.”

“Don’t give me that,” he begged her. “Something’s wrong. Please tell me what’s wrong.”

“I-I just…I had hoped to see you again.”

“Whyever not?” He made to take her hand once more, but restrained himself at the last second. “I would very much like that as well.”

“I don’t think you would, Your Majesty. Not if you knew who I really was.”

“I know who you are.” In the weeks to come, he would doubt this; he’d put it down to his chronic sleep deprivation, the heady night air, enchantment. But in that moment, he felt as close to her as someone he’d known all the days of his life.

“You do?” She sounded afraid.

“Yes. You, my dear lady stranger,” he says, “are the funniest person I’ve ever met.” This, finally, got the fond eyeroll. “Really, you are hilarious. Yet you’re honest enough to tell me when I’m not.”

“It was only the puns,” she protested.

“You are determined,” he continued. “You said you would finish the platter of stuffed pan de sal and by God, I have never seen anyone eat so much so fast. That’s a compliment, by the way,” he said to her reddening cheeks. “It was a marvel.”

“You had it right the first time, Your Majesty. For a prince, your manners are deplorable.”

“You’re also extremely kind,” he added.

“Deplorable!” she exclaimed.

“Really.” He stretched out his hand, giving her the choice, and after a beat she laced her fingers with his again. “When you see someone requires assistance, no matter who they are, whether or not they themselves know it, you take action. Even when you clearly need help yourself.”

“I don’t-“

“You have not told me much of your family, my lady, but from what I’ve gathered you are in a rather unhappy situation. Please,” he said, “let me help you. I promise to stand by you no matter what happens, wherever you come from, whatever your name is. Just say the word.”

The lady seemed torn. In the bright, pale moonlight, away from the glitter and ornaments of the ballroom, her masterpiece of a dress seemed to be just a shade more quotidian, her elfin features less otherworldly and more tremendously human as she bit her lip and decided. It made him fall for her all the more. “I,” she said, and stopped herself. She cleared her throat. “My name is…I mean. I-I’m-“

“It’s alright,” he said gently.

She squeezed his hand, as if asking for courage. He squeezed back. “My name is-“

Then the clock struck midnight.

_ _ _

“She’s a commoner, isn’t she?” Regine asks.

For a moment, Prince Dominic did not answer, lost for a time in the way his sister stroked his hair soothingly. She had strode across the room and insisted he sit down on the plush couch, and then laid his head on her lap, just as she did when the doctors gave them the news that their parents died of the plague. When he finally found his voice, he says dully, “Yes.”

It is the logical conclusion. Why had it been such a miracle for her to go to a party? Why did she need a member of the fae to magic her improbable glass shoes, and perhaps the rest of her lovely attire?

Why was she so afraid to let him know who she was?

It would take another miracle to see her again, let alone to offer her what he wished. “So why am I still hoping?” he whispers. Then he curses himself, realizing that he spoke out loud.

But Regine does not tease. She gives a soft, almost resigned sigh. “Because, dear brother,” she says, “you are a person who loves deeply and truly. You are that, as well as a good and kind king.”

He snorts.

“It’s true,” she says, rueful. “You’re a much better ruler than I ever could have been. You knew from the start that being a leader was more burden than privilege, and I—I never completely grasped that. Not until I was called by God and realized how selfish I’d been.” She ruffles his hair again. “You were right to stage that coup against me.”

“Sister,” he says, but she shakes her head.

“But even if I was selfish,” she says, her eyes bright, “I still know enough about statecraft to comprehend the state of our kingdom, both when I ruled and even more so after the stability you brought to the Islands. And what I know is that we are not in peril.” She looks at him. “You do not need to give your hand out of desperation, brother.”

“But Spain is still watching us-“

“They will always be watching us,” she says disdainfully. “Their precious former colony that rose up against them, foolish and still in need of their oh-so-enlightened help and guidance. Whatever we do, they will always be looking for a chance to snatch us up again.”

“So what do we do?” he asks. His voice sounds small.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “And, selfishly, I am glad that burden is no longer on my shoulders.”

“Thanks, Regine,” he mutters.

She flicks his nose.

“Huy!”

“I have not abandoned you,” she says. “I will not abandon you. I am here beside you, Dominic, and from now on I promise to give you whatever advice you need.”

“And what advice is that, dear sister?”

“That you remember we cannot, as a nation or as people, live on fear alone. And that you must remember you are a leader as well as a ruler, Dom. Your kingdom is watching how you make your choice, and will be led by how you make it.”

“What choice?”

“What to do,” she says, “when love beckons you.”

_ _ _

He goes with them, of course. It would have been out of the question to get a significant portion of the guard to go through this wild goose chase without him at the helm, albeit in plain soldier’s clothes so as to obscure his identity. To begin with, they were to fit the glass slipper on every maiden within each invited household.

He felt like sinking into the floor when he made this proposal in the council room, even with his sister by his side. And indeed, they had all looked at him as if he’d gone mad.

None of them protested, though. Even when he told them of his intentions.

Some of them even looked—excited. As if they were genuinely thrilled their future queen was going to be chosen in this way.

“It’s because they trust you,” Regine said after the meeting. “And they want you to be happy.”

“If you say so,” he said, still bemused.

And so they went.

Household after household, family after family, maiden after maiden until Dominic had seen more than enough feet he had ever wanted to encounter in his lifetime.

Then they get to the capital city's outskirts.

The two young ladies residing in the last mansion before the gates try and fail. Their mother, of grand bearing and clad in even grander skirts, glares at them as if it is their fault. He and the company of guard bow, take their leave, when—

“Wait.”

Prince Dominic turns.

And there she is. Clad in dirty old rags, hair in disarray, fists clenched and bare feet looking half-ready to bolt any minute. But her voice is steady, calm and familiar, when she says, “I would like to try the slipper on.”

The lady of the house hisses, “You are nothing but a scullery maid! What right do you-“

“Every right,” Prince Dominic says, stepping forward. “The prince proclaimed every maiden in each invited household.”

When he turns his gaze at the lady, she has paled. She recognizes him, too.

She glances at the door. He swallows at the lump in his throat, knowing that if she runs, he must take the rejection for what it is.

But she does not run. Instead, she gives him a short, polite curtsy, walks forward, and seats herself delicately on the coach. She is taking long, calming breaths.

He kneels down. “It’s alright,” he tells her again, even more gently than before.

“It’s you,” she whispers. Her eyes are bright with tears.

He smiles at her. “What’s your name?”

Her mouth twists a little. “Cinderella.”

He notices the spray of ashes on her cheeks. Remembers how she never did like puns.

“My stepmother was right,” she says in a sudden rush. “I am nothing but a scullery maid—worse than that, really. I have no status in life, no claim to anything or anyone. I have nothing worthwhile to offer you.”

“Alright,” he says.

“Alright?” she repeats with an incredulous laugh. She lowers her voice. “You are known to be a wise ruler, you know. They say you never make a decision without considering it twice, thrice, and once more for good measure.”

“I don’t think I’m as hesitant as that,” Dominic protests lightly. “But yes. I do like being sure of my choices.”

“So why, my dear, famously pragmatic Prince Dominic, are you here?”

He slides the slipper onto her foot. It’s a perfect fit.

“Cinderella.” He says her name with so much soft reverence she cannot help but blush. He offers her his hand. “I think you know.”

/ / /

A/N: Written for the @inklings-challenge's Four Loves Fairytale Challenge! I'd love to know what you think of the story, if you have time to comment/tag. Either way, I hope you enjoyed, and I look forward to reading everyone's entries!

Also: Because I didn't outright say it in the story (and because it's very important to me), this story is set in an alternate history/fantasy Philippines <3

#The Prince #inklingschallenge #theme: agape #theme: eros #theme: storge #Cinderella #Cinderella retelling #story: complete

[secretariatess]

The Milkmaids and the Partridge

So, because I usually write other world fantasy, where Christmas doesn't actually exist. So writing a fantasy Christmas story for me . . . wouldn't be undoable, I guess, but it would take a lot more work than I wanted to put in.

So the theme was "Twelve Days of Christmas," which is meant of the literal days of Christmas and not the song. But I'm being very loose with all of this and using inspiration from the song, and inspiration from the real Christmas story.

It's more of a fairy tale than anything, so hopefully it's enjoyable despite my liberties, lol. It's under 5k words (which is surprising for me!)

For the Christmas Inklings Challenge, @inklings-challenge

 Once upon a time, in the Realm of the Ten Lords, there was a humble dairy farm on the outskirts of the town.  This dairy farm, known to most as the Starry Night Farm due to its uniquely painted barn, was owned and run by eight milkmaids.  These milkmaids were not sisters by blood, but considered themselves such all the same because of how close they got over the years.  The start of their friendship is truly an interesting story, but it is not the story right now.

 These milkmaids all lived in the space over the barn.  It was not a very large space, as they did not have many cows, but it kept them warm and provided beds for them, so they were quite content with their lives.  Their cows produced some of the finest milk in all the realm, and so they had met many a traveler seeking to taste the milk.

 Now one of their duties was to make sure their pastures were fit for their cows.  A good pasture led to happy, healthy cows, and that was part of their secret for their milk.  The milkmaids took this task very seriously and always kept a sharp eye out for anything that might pose a danger to the cows.

 It was one morning that Spirit, for that was the name of one of the milkmaids, noticed that there was a patch of foxtail growing in the corner of the pasture.  Now see, foxtail was not very good for cows, as the spikelets of the foxtail could get into the noses and ears of cows and cause great harm.  Spirit promptly got rid of it and thought that that was the end of it.

 The next day, Comfort, another milkmaid, saw foxtail growing in the corner of the pasture, and she took care of it before any of the cows wandered over.  Like Spirit, she thought that was the end of it.  But the next day, and the day after that, all the milkmaids had encountered the foxtail, each believing that they were responsible for getting rid of it and not realizing that their fellow milkmaids had done the same thing.

 It was not until Spirit saw the foxtail again, and this time, there was more of it.  She said to her fellow milkmaids, “Dear sisters, see here- I have removed this foxtail but a little over a week ago and it has returned in a larger bunch.”

 “You have removed it?” said Meek, another milkmaid who was normally quiet.  “Why, I have removed it myself only a week past! It has returned already?”

 “That is quite odd,” said Suffered, yet another one of the milkmaids.  “For it twas only yesterday that I removed a patch of foxtail.”

 It was then discovered that all of the milkmaids had removed a patch of foxtail.  The rate of its growth alarmed them.

 “Dear sisters, what should we do?” asked Patience, wringing her hands.  “If it will only come back, and in larger amounts, removing it will get us nowhere!”

 “Come now,” chided Righteous gently.  “There is no use getting in a tizzy just yet. We will ask the Nine Ladies for their wisdom about what we should do.”

 It was a very good idea, and the milkmaids agreed to trek into town at the end of the week.  The Nine Ladies were fond of dancing, and held a dance every end of the week.  They were married to the Ten Lords, save one.  This Lord fancied his leaping, as the rest of the Lords were, but thought that getting married would only tie him down.  He wanted to spend as many years as he could to leap as high as he could before he settled down and got married.

 It was a jolly sight when they arrived.  Half the townsfolk had arrived to participate in the dance, and the music was merry.  For those who were not as nimble on their feet, or perhaps were recovering from having partners who were not as nimble on their feet, there was a large banquet set up for them to enjoy, courtesy of the Nine Ladies.

 The milkmaids approached the table of the Nine Ladies, who were resting after spending only a few hours on the dance floor, and curtsied low to them, as one does to show respect to a noble.  In truth, the milkmaids were not used to curtsying as they spent much of their time with their cows, and one does not curtsy to a cow.  Because of this one or two of them thought they would tip over before they could straighten.  Fortunately, they did not.

 “Oh great Ladies of the Realm,” said Pure, rising up from her curtsy and clasping her hands together as though she were praying.  “We have come to implore you for your wisdom, as we are faced with a terrible problem and do not know how to get rid of it.”

 “Speak girls,” said the Lady in the middle, whose cheeks were red and jolly, “and tell us what your problem is that we may help you.”

 “Great Ladies of the Realm,” said Pure again, addressing them so that she may not be seen as rude, “we discovered a patch of foxtail growing in our pasture a little over a week ago. It was not too much of an issue for us, but we found out that it was growing every day, and recently we discovered that it has come back nearly twice the size. It is not good for our cows, and we are concerned about the damage it will cause them. What should we do about this foxtail that will not go away?”

 “Oh, fear not!” said the Lady at the end on the right.  “That is an easy enough fix. What you need is a partridge.”

 “A partridge?” repeated Pure.  She remembered her manners and quickly added, “Oh Great Lady?”

 The Lady at the end on the left nodded cheerfully.  “Truly! That is all you need. There is a partridge in the Garden of the Eleven Pipers- if you go to her, you may be able to persuade her to return with you. When she does, she will eat your foxtail, for that is what partridges like.”

 The milkmaids all curtsied low at this advice.

 “Great Ladies of the Realm, we thank you for your help,” said Pure.  “We shall be ever grateful.”

 “Now, now,” the Lady to the left of the Lady in the middle, “rise up and smile. Perhaps you will join us for some time in this dance!”

 The milkmaids did as the Lady requested, and danced for joy at the solution to their problem.  When they returned that night, for they spent many hours dancing, they prepared themselves for the journey to the Garden of the Eleven Pipers and put away their cows with a lot of hay to ensure their happiness.

 The Garden of the Eleven Pipers was on the other side and would take a few days worth of travel to get there.  The milkmaids had never been there themselves, but they had met people who had, and they were told it was a wonderful place.  So they were excited to see its wonder and bring back the partridge.  It was agreed to take a sack of seeds with them to present to the partridge in order to persuade her to return with them.

 In the morning, they set off, singing to each other all sorts of joyous songs.

 As they journeyed on, they came upon the Great Horned Owl.

 The Great Horned Owl was sleeping, and was not happy with being disturbed from his slumber by their joyful singing.  He settled on the side of the path, peering at them blearily with narrowed eyes as he tried to make them out.

 “Too-hoo! What is this to-do?” he hooted, blinking slowly.  The daylight bothered his eyes so.

 “We are going to the Garden of the Eleven Pipers,” said Peace, stepping forward.

 “The Garden of the Eleven Pipers?” hooted the Owl.  “Too-hoo! That is a long journey.”

 “It is only a few days,” said Peace.  “It is not too long for us.”

 “Too-hoo! I see,” said the Owl.  “Now why would eight young milkmaids be going to the Garden of Eleven Pipers for? Is this part of the Realm not satisfactory for you?”  The Great Horned Owl was a nosy fellow, and had to know about people moving about where they usually did not go.

 “We are going to find a partridge,” said Peace.  She showed him the basket they prepared for the partridge.  The milkmaids had agreed that it would be much more comfortable for the partridge to sit in a cushioned basket than to be carried by their arms or walk the whole way back to the Starry Night Farm.

 “A partridge? Too-hoo! What an odd thing to look for,” said the Owl.

 “We need the partridge to help us with the foxtail in our farm,” said Peace.  “It is growing at an alarming rate, and the Nine Ladies told us that a partridge will eat the foxtail.”

 “Too-hoo! Is that true?” said the Owl.  But the Owl was jealous.  He prided himself with helping all who came across his path with his wide range of knowledge, and he did not like the idea of the milkmaids seeking help from another bird.  Why wouldn’t the Nine Ladies send them to him?  He could have figured out a solution to their problem.

 “It is true!” confirmed Peace.

 “Well then, too-hoo!” said the Owl, devising a plan.  “When you come back, why don’t you show me the partridge before going back to the farm? I have some foxtail myself that I would like to get rid of. If this partridge can do it, than I would like to have some of her time.”

 The milkmaids agreed, because they did not know that the Owl was scheming.  He did not have any foxtail that was growing anywhere, so he certainly did not need the partridge for that.  He instead hoped to eat the partridge whole, so he could remain the only bird to whom the humans asked for help.  But the milkmaids could not have known this, for he was very convincing.

 So they continued on their way.  After a few days, they stood at the entrance of the Garden of the Eleven Pipers.  No one really saw the Pipers at work in the Garden, but they knew they were there, somewhere among the plants and trees the Pipers grew.  The Garden was enormous, and the Pipers allowed anyone in to come and rest, and to eat the fruit and vegetables of their garden.  It was a refuge for many creatures and people without any other place to go.

 But because it was so large, the milkmaids realized that it would take them quite a while to find the partridge.  They wandered here and there, stepping around the carrot patches and the tomato plants, twisting their way around the apple trees and blueberry bushes, until they came upon a sparkling creek winding around the orange trees.  In this creek were seven beautiful swans, swimming about and coming together to share some exciting information before drifting apart again to think of something else that had happened to them that week.

 The milkmaids quietly approached, not wanting to startle the swans.

 One of them took noticed and let out a welcoming honk.  “Welcome, welcome! Now, what brings the eight of you lovely milkmaids here?” cried one of the swans.

 “We are looking for a partridge,” said Meek, stepping in front of the other milkmaids.  “We were told by the Nine Ladies that we could find her here, but we do not know where to look for her.”

 “Oh, the partridge!” exclaimed the swan.  “Oh yes, we know the partridge. She joins us for our weddings and birthdays, you know.”

 “And when we have feasts!” piped another swan.  “She is quite a lovely thing, and we certainly enjoy her company.”

 “Perhaps you could point us in the right direction?” asked Meek.  “We are beginning to feel quite lost.”

 “Oh, but of course!” said the second swan.  “Now, if you go down that way, you should come out to some very lovely banana trees. There are usually some geese there who know just about everyone here in the Garden. They will tell you where the partridge likes to go.”

 “Thank you very much!” said Meek, and she meant it.  For it is not every day that one gets lost in a giant garden.  The experience was quite overwhelming.

 The milkmaids followed the swan’s advice, and sure enough, they came across some banana trees with six geese who had made themselves quite cozy at the root of the trees.  Their nests were big enough to hold fully grown humans, and they were made with the softest, finest things that the geese could find.  The geese were very particular about their nests, for once every week, they would lay one egg.  And then on the seventh day, they would all rest and care for the egg they laid.

 They were resting on this day, sitting happily on the eggs they laid and dreaming of the gooseling they would get to meet shortly.

 When the milkmaids arrived, they lifted their heads contentedly.

 “Excuse us, madams,” said Mercy, stepping forward this time.  “Perhaps you could tell where we might find the partridge? We were told that you would know.”

 “Why, of course dear!” said the first goose.  Her voice was that that only a mother could have when talking tenderly to a child.  “We know exactly where she is. She likes to roost among the pear trees.”

 “Thank you, kind madams,” said Mercy, giving a little curtsy.  She did not know if it was proper to do so, but it felt wrong to not do so.  Her fellow milkmaids followed suit, giving the geese a respectful curtsy.  “Perhaps you could tell us where the pear trees are? We are new to the Garden, and do not know our way around.”

 “Oh, you poor dears,” fussed the second goose.  “Wandering around the Garden, and no idea of how to get anywhere? It is a wonder you got this far then, I shouldn’t wonder. We would take you ourselves if it weren’t for the fact that we mustn’t leave these eggs alone. The Garden is safe, but it never hurts to be careful.”

 “Well, I shan’t tell them to go alone,” said the third goose.  “I would not want them to wander off and get lost again. Even with the best directions you can always take a wrong step, and next thing you know, you’re in the pumpkin patch!”

 “No need to worry,” said the fourth goose calmly.  “We shall send the calling birds with them. They will know where to go, and can stay with the girls so that they do not get lost. Now, you must wait for them,” she told the milkmaids sternly.

 The milkmaids agreed and settled themselves by the geese while the fifth goose let out a loud honk to tell the calling birds to come to them.  While they waited, the milkmaids told the geese of their mission, and the foxtail that was growing in their pasture.  The geese sympathized with their plight and fussed over the long journey that the milkmaids had to take to get the Garden.  The milkmaids let the geese fuss over them, for it was better to let the geese care for them and not to tell them that they did not need the care.  As it was, it felt nice to be cared for.  The geese made sure they still had enough food and water to continue on, and to make it back home.

 The two calling birds arrived shortly after the geese confirmed that the milkmaids would be able to travel quite comfortably.

 “Greetings!” said the first calling bird.  “We heard that someone is in need of our service?”

 “Yes, yes, these poor dears are looking for the partridge,” said the second goose.  “They are quite lost, as it is their first time in the Garden. Would you be so kind as to escort them to the pear trees so that they do not get lost?”

 “Most certainly!” said the second calling bird.  He swept into a bow as only a bird could.  “We can bring you straight to the partridge! However, we must tell you, that you will have to wait until nightfall to speak with her. For she is a very busy bird and does not come to rest until night.”

 “We can most certainly wait,” assured Mercy, giving the calling birds a curtsy in turn.  All this curtsying was making her legs tired.  She was not used to having to do this.

 “Right this way, then!” said the first calling bird.  He took off from the branch where he had landed and swiftly wove between the trees.  The second calling bird only took off when the milkmaids had started to follow, occasionally flying behind them or perching on their shoulder.  The first calling bird stopped when he had gone far enough, making sure the milkmaids knew where to go.  The second calling bird stayed with them to make sure they did not take a wrong turn and get lost.  He also had a very good singing voice and knew a great deal of songs, many of which he taught the milkmaids as they made their way to the pear trees.

 It was early evening when they arrived.  The calling birds brought them directly to the pear tree where the partridge would rest.  The milkmaids rested their weary legs underneath the tree.  Even though they tried to maintain a conversation with the calling birds, they eventually became too tired and fell asleep.

 They were awoken by a bright light from above them.  Looking up as they rubbed the sleep from their eyes, they saw light from a very bright star as a partridge came to rest in the branches of the pear tree above them.  She peered down at them curiously.

 “It is not every night that I come to find visitors beneath my tree,” said the partridge.  “What brings you here?”

 “O Great Partridge,” said Comfort.  She used such great titles because that is how one addresses the Ladies.  And if this partridge was to save them from their foxtail problem, it was only logical to refer to her like this.  “We have come to plead for your help. Our farm has a problem with foxtail- my sisters and I have all pulled it up, but it keeps returning. We were told by the Nine Ladies that you would be able to help us.”

 Peace held up the offering of nuts.  “We have brought you these as part of our request to come back with us,” said Peace.  “If you do, we will be forever indebted to you, for the foxtail is harmful to our cows, and our cows are our livelihood.”

 The partridge looked quite pleased with the request.  But not a pleased where she looked proud, but rather a pleased that she was happy they had asked her.  “Of course, daughters, I will come with you and take care of your foxtail. Now settle yourselves back to sleep so you are rested for the journey. In the morning, we shall head out.”

 The milkmaids thanked her profusely and settled back into sleep.

 In the morning, when they were still rising from their slumber and getting themselves ready to go, they were approached by three hens who prided themselves with knowing a language known as “French,” which was spoken in a realm very far from the Realm of the Ten Lords.  Though there were some who suspected that the hens had just made up a language of gibberish and claimed that it was real to make themselves seem well educated, especially since they could not speak any known languages besides the common tongue.

 But these hens were not here to boast of their language skills.  Instead, they looked quite concerned.  “Dear mademoiselles, you must not return the way you came,” they told the milkmaids.

 “Why is that?” asked Suffered.

 “We have it on good authority that the Great Horned Owl is expecting you,” they informed them.  “But he is not looking to get rid of foxtail, as he had told you. He was sharing with some of his friends how much he was going to enjoy partridge for dinner someday. If you return the way you came and meet with the Great Horned Owl, he will surely eat the partridge.”

 “Oh dear,” said Meek.  “That is something that we cannot let happen! But then, how are we to return?”

 “There is a hamlet of twelve drummers,” they told the milkmaids.  “Up in the hills, south of the Garden. If you go to them, they will provide you a way home.”

 The milkmaids thanked the hens for their advice.  They tucked the partridge all nice and cozy in the basket they brought for her, supplying her with their offering of nuts.  They then followed the hens’ advice and headed south out of the Garden.

 It was a hard journey to the hamlet.  It consisted only of twelve houses and one meeting house.  Each building sat on a hill of its own, and each hill was steep.  The drummers, who were not drummers by trade, would sit outside of their houses and drum with each other.  They only left their hills when they had to go to the meeting house to discuss important things that oculd not be said yelling across the dips between hills.

 When the milkmaids arrived, such an event demanded the use of the meeting house.  The drummers saw them from a long way off and were waiting for them there already.  The milkmaids collapsed on the ground, too tired from the journey to show proper decorum to the drummers.  Tearfully, the milkmaids told the drummers of their plight.  The drummers comforted them, telling them that they were safe.  The drummers provided for them blankets and makeshift beds so they could sleep in the meeting house.  Before bed, both the drummers and the milkmaids ate a lovely dinner of fruits, nuts, vegetables, and meat that each drummer harvested from his own hill.  The partridge remained in her basket, happily observing the dining.

 In the morning, the drummers came to the milkmaids.  They presented them with five golden rings.

 “These are magic rings,” said one of the drummers, who used congas.  “We use them when we want to leave the hills. They will take you back to your home without the Great Horned Owl’s knowledge.”

 The milkmaids thanked them as profusely as they thanked the hens.  They all partnered with another of the milkmaids, with Pure carrying the basket with the partridge.  One of the drummers, the one who played a timpani, accompanied them to show them how to use the rings and to take the rings back home after ensuring they got back safely.

 When they arrived at the Starry Night Farm, the milkmaids further showed their gratitude by gifting the timpani drummer with twelve bottles of their finest milk.

 They set the partridge amongst the foxtail, which had overtaken the whole pasture in their absence.  The partridge immediately set to work, eating away at all the foxtail.  When enough of it had been eaten, the milkmaids let the cows out, who had been safely shut away.

 Unbeknownst to the milkmaids, the Great Horned Owl realized that they were not going to return the way they came.  Enraged by their trickery, he himself flew to the Garden in hopes of finding the partridge.  Not knowing what a partridge looked like, he made sure to eat all the quail and grouse who considered themselves safe in the Garden.  When he realized that he still had not caught the partridge, he headed back to the Starry Night Farm to exact his revenge.

 The milkmaids were out in the pasture tending to their cows when the Owl arrived.  Talons spread, he swooped towards Spirit, who cried out in fear.  Her fellow milkmaids rushed to save her, but it was the partridge who jumped out in front of Spirit.

 The partridge fought fiercely, caring not that the Owl was bigger than her, nor that his talons were sharp and made to snatch her up.  To the Owl’s great surprise, she was stronger than she appeared and above all, determined.

 Just as the sun started to sink beneath the trees, the battle ended.  The Owl dragged himself away from the site of the battle into the uneaten foxtail and died from his wounds.

 The partridge remained where she was, beaten, bruised, and bloodied.  The milkmaids rushed to her side to find that she was already dead.

 The milkmaids wept bitterly, placing her in the basket that had been serving as her bed.  They brought the basket into the barn where they mourned the whole night.  Their tears exhausted them and they fell asleep around the basket.

 Morning came and peered through the slats of the barns.  The milkmaids blinked awake in its gaze.  There, in the middle of the largest sunbeam, sat the partridge, alive and well!  The milkmaids cried out in amazement and happiness.

 “O Great Partridge!” gasped Righteous.  “We thought you were surely gone! How joyous is it that you are not!”

 “Death could not keep me, daughter, after such a sacrifice,” said the partridge.  “I said I would take care of your foxtail, and I am not one to go back on my promises.”

 With great rejoicing, the milkmaids returned the pasture with partridge.  The carcass of the Owl was thrown out by the road, where worms, scavengers, and flies discovered it.  The partridge remained with the milkmaids and ate their foxtail.  The cows continued to be healthy and happy, and produced even finer milk than before.

For now, at least, they lived happily ever after.

#inklingschallenge #christmas inklings challenge

[queenlucythevaliant]

Clad in Justice and Worth

Written for the Inklings Challenge 2023 (@inklings-challenge). Inspired by the lives of Jeanne d'Albret and Marguerite de Navarre, although numerous liberties have been taken with the history in the name of introducing fantastical elements and telling a good story. The anglicization of names (Jeanne to Joan and Marguerite to Margaret) is meant to reflect the fictionalization of these figures.

The heat was unbearable, and it would grow only hotter as they descended into the lowlands. It was fortunate, Joan decided, that Navarre was a mountain country. It was temperate, even cold there in September. It would be sweltering by the sea.

The greater issue ought to have been the presence of Monluc, who would cut Joan’s party off at the Garonne River most like. The soldiers with whom she traveled were fierce, but Monluc had an entire division at the Garrone. Joan would be a prisoner of war if Providence did not see her through. Henry, perhaps, might suffer worse. He might be married to a Catholic princess.

Yet Joan was accustomed to peril. She had cut her teeth on it. Her first act as queen, some twenty years ago, had been to orchestrate the defense of her kingdom, and she was accustomed to slipping through nets and past assassins. The same could not be said of the infernal heat, which assaulted her without respite. Joan wore sensible travel clothing, but the layers of her skirts were always heavy with sweat. A perpetual tightness sat in her chest, the remnant of an old bout with consumption, and however much she coughed it would not leave.

All the same, it would not do to seem less than strong, so she hid the coughing whenever she could. The hovering of her aides was an irritant and she often wished she could just dismiss them all.

“How fare you in the heat, Majesty?”

“I have war in my gut, Clemont,” Joan snapped. “Worry not for me. If you must pester someone, pester Henry.”

He nodded, chastened. “A messenger is here from Navarre. Sent, I suspect, to induce you to return hence.”

“I would not listen to his birdcalls.”

“Young Henry said much the same.”

Joan stuffed down her irritation that Clemont had gone to Henry before he’d come to her. She was still queen, even if her son was rapidly nearing his majority. “Tell him that if the Huguenot leaders are to be plucked, I think it better that we all go together. Tell him that I would rather my son and I stand with our brothers than await soldiers and assassins in our little kingdom.”

Her aide gave a stiff nod. “At once, your Majesty.”

She would breathe easier when they reached the host at La Rochelle. Yet then, there would be more and greater work to do. There would be war, and Joan would be at the head of it.

*

When she awoke in the night, Joan knew at once that something was awry. It was cool. Gone was the blistering heat that had plagued them all day. Perhaps one of the kidnapping plots had finally succeeded.

Certainly, it seemed that way. She was in a cell, cool and dank and no more than six paces square. And yet—how strange! —the door was open.

Rising unsteadily to her feet, Joan crept towards the shaft of moonlight that fell through it. She glanced about for guards, but saw only a single prisoner in dirty clothes standing just beyond the threshold. He was blinking rapidly, as though the very existence of light bewildered him. Then, as Joan watched, he crept forward towards the gate of the jailhouse and out into the free air beyond. Joan listened for a long moment, trying to hear if there was any commotion at the prisoner’s emergence. When she could perceive none, she followed him out into the cool night air.

A lantern blazed. “Come quickly,” a voice hissed. “Our friend the Princess is waiting.”

The prisoner answered in a voice too quiet for Joan to hear. Then, quite suddenly, she heard his companion say, “Who is it that there behind you?”

The prisoner turned round, and Joan’s fingers itched towards her hidden knife. But much to her astonishment, he exclaimed, “Why, it is the lady herself! Margaret!”

But Joan had no opportunity to reply. Voices sounded outside her pavilion and she awoke to the oppressive heat of the day before. Coughing hard, Joan rolled ungracefully from her bed and tried to put away the grasping tendrils of her dream.

“The river is dry, Majesty” her attendant informed her as soon as she emerged from her pavilion, arrayed once again in sensible riding clothes. “The heat has devoured it. We can bypass Monluc without trouble, I deem.”

“Well then,” Joan replied, stifling another cough. “Glory to God for the heat.”

*

They did indeed pass Monluc the next day, within three fingers of his nose. Joan celebrated with Henry and the rest, yet all the while her mind was half taken up with her dream from the night before. Never, in all her life, had her mind conjured so vivid a sensory illusion. It had really felt cool in that jail cell, and the moonlight beyond it had been silver and true. Stranger still, the prisoner and his accomplice had called Joan by her mother’s name.

Joan had known her mother only a little. At the age of five, she had been detained at the French court while her mother returned to Navarre. This was largely on account of her mother’s religious convictions. Margaret of Angoulême had meddled too closely with Protestantism, so her brother the king had seen fit to deprive her of her daughter and raise her a Catholic princess.

His successor had likewise stolen Henry from Joan, for despite the king’s best efforts she was as Protestant as her mother. Yet unlike Margaret, Joan had gone back for her child. Two years ago, she had secretly swept Henry away from Paris on horseback. She’d galloped the horses nearly to death, but she’d gotten him to the armed force waiting at the border, and then at last home to Navarre. Sometimes, Joan wondered why her own mother had not gone to such lengths to rescue her. But Margaret’s best weapons had been tears, it was said, and tears could not do the work of sharp swords.

The Navarre party arrived at La Rochelle just before dusk on the twenty-eighth of September. The heat had faltered a little, to everyone’s great relief, but the air by the sea was still heavy with moisture. The tightness in Joan’s chest persisted.

“There will be much celebration now that you have come, Your Majesty,” said the boy seeing to her accommodations. “There’s talk of giving you the key to the city, and more besides.”

Sure enough, Joan was greeted with applause when she entered the Huguenot council. “I and my son are here to promote the success of our great cause or to share in its disaster,” she said when the council quieted. “I have been reproached for leaving my lands open to invasion by Spain, but I put my confidence in God who will not suffer a hair of our heads to perish. How could I stay while my fellow believers were being massacred? To let a man drown is to commit murder.”

*

Sometimes it seemed that the men only played at war. The Duke of Conde, who led the Huguenot forces, treated it as a game of chivalry between gentlemen. Others, like Monluc, regarded it as a business; the mercenaries he hired robbed and raped and brutalized, and though be bemoaned the cruelty he did nothing to curtail it.

There were sixty-thousand refugees pouring into the city. Joan was not playing at war. When she rose in the mornings, she put poultices on her chest, then went to her office after breaking her fast. There was much to do. She administered the city, attended councils of war, and advised the synod. In addition, she was still queen of Navarre, and was required to govern her own kingdom from afar.

In the afternoons, she often met with Beza to discuss matters of the church, or else with Conde, to discuss military matters. Joan worked on the city’s fortifications, and in the evenings she would ride out to observe them. Henry often joined her on these rides; he was learning the art of war, and he seemed to have a knack for it.

“A knack is not sufficient,” Joan told him. “Anyone can learn to fortify a port. I have learned, and I am a woman.”

“I know it is not sufficient,” the boy replied. “I must commit myself entirely to the cause of our people, and of Our Lord. Is that not what you were going to tell me?”   

“Ah, Henry, you know me too well. I am glad of it. I am glad to see you bear with strength the great and terrible charge which sits upon your shoulders.”

“How can I help being strong? I have you for a mother.”

At night, Joan fell into bed too exhausted for dreams.

*

Yet one night, she woke once again to find her chest loose and her breathing comfortable. She stood in a hallway which she recognized at once. She was at the Château de Fontainebleau, the place of her birth, just beyond the door to the king’s private chambers.

“Oh please, Francis, please. You cannot really mean to send him to the stake!” The voice on the other side of the door was female, and it did not belong to the queen.

A heavy sigh answered it. “I mean to do just that, ma mignonne. He is a damned heretic, and a rabble-rouser besides. Now, sister, don’t cry. If there’s one thing I cannot bear, it is your weeping.”

At those words, a surge of giddiness, like lightning, came over Joan’s whole body. It was her own mother speaking to the king. She was but a few steps away and they were separated only by a single wooden door.

“He is my friend, Francis. Do you say I should not weep for my friends?”

A loud harumph. “A strange thing, Margaret. Your own companions told me that you have never met the man.”

“Does such a triviality preclude friendship? He is my brother in Our Lord.”  

“And I am your true brother, and your king besides.”

“And as you are my brother—” here, Margaret’s voice cracked with overburdening emotion. She was crying again, Joan was certain. “As you are my brother, you must grant me this boon. Do not harm those I love, Francis.”

The king did not respond, so Joan drew nearer to the door. A minute later, she leapt backwards when it opened. There stood her mother, not old and sick as Joan had last seen her twenty years before, but younger even than Joan herself.

“If you’ve time to stand about listening at doors, then you are not otherwise employed,” Margaret said, wiping her tears from her face with the back of her hand. “I am going to visit a friend. You shall accompany me.”

Looking down at herself, Joan realized that her mother must have mistaken her for one of Fountainbleu’s many ladies-in-waiting. She was in her night clothes, which was really a simple day dress such as a woman might wear to a provincial market. Joan did not sleep in anything which would hinder her from acting immediately, should the city be attacked in the middle of the night. 

“As you wish, Majesty,” Joan replied with a curtsey. Margaret raised an eyebrow, and instantly Joan corrected herself: “Your Highness.”

Margaret stopped at her own rooms to wrap herself in a plain, hooded cloak. “What is your name?” she asked.

“Joan, your Highness.”

“Well, Joan. As penance for eavesdropping, you shall keep your own counsel with regards to our errand. Is that clear?”

“Yes, your Highness,” Joan replied stiffly. Any fool could see what friend Margaret intended to visit, and Joan wished she could think of a way to cut through the pretense.

When Margaret arrived at the jail with Joan in tow, the warden greeted her almost like a friend. “You are here to see the heretic, Princess? Shall I fetch you a chair?”

“Yes, Phillip. And a lantern, if you would.”

The cell was nearly identical to the one which Joan had dreamed on the road to La Rochelle. Inside sat a man with sparse gray hair covering his chin. Margaret’s chair was placed just outside the cell, but she brushed past it. She handed the lantern to Joan and knelt down in the cell beside the prisoner.

“I was told that I had a secret friend in the court,” he said. “I see now that she is an angel.”

“No angel, monsieur Faber. I am Margaret, and this is my lady, Joan. I have come to see to your welfare, as best I am able.”

Now, Margaret’s hood fell back, and all at once she looked every inch the Princess of France. Yet her voice was small and choked when she said, “Will you do me the honor of praying with me?”

Margaret was already on her knees, but she lowered herself further. She rested one hand lightly on Faber’s knee, and after a moment, he took it. Her eyes fluttered closed. In the dim light, Joan thought she saw tears starting down her mother’s cheek.

When she woke in the morning, Joan could still remember her mother’s face. There were tears in her hazelnut eyes, and a weeping quiver in her voice.

*

Winter came, and Joan’s coughing grew worse. There was blood in it now, and occasionally bits of feathery flesh that got caught in her throat and made her gag. She hid it in her handkerchief.

“Winter battles are ugly,” Conde remarked one morning as Christmas was drawing near. “If the enemy is anything like gentlemen, they will not attack until spring. And yet, I think, we must stand at readiness.”

“By all means,” Joan replied. “Anything less than readiness would be negligence.”

Conde chuckled, not unkindly. “For all your strength and skill, madame, it is obvious that you were not bred for command. No force can be always at readiness. It would kill the men as surely as the sword. ‘Tis not negligence to celebrate the birth of Our Lord, for instance.”

Joan nodded curtly, but did not reply.

As the new year began, the city was increasingly on edge. There was frequent unrest among the refugees, and the soldiers Joan met when she rode the fortifications nearly always remarked that an attack would come soon.

Then, as February melted into March, word came from Admiral Coligny that his position along the Guirlande Stream had been compromised. The Catholic vanguard was swift approaching, and more Huguenot forces were needed. By the time word reached Joan in the form of a breathless young page outside her office, Conde was already assembling the cavalry. Joan made for the Navarre quarter at once, as fast as her lungs and her skirts would let her.

The battle was an unmitigated disaster. The Huguenots arrived late, and in insufficient numbers. Their horses were scattered and their infantry routed, and the bulk of their force was forced back to Cognac to regroup. As wounded came pouring in, Joan went to the surgical tents to make herself useful.

The commander La Noue’s left arm had been shattered and required amputation. Steeling herself, Joan thought of Margaret’s tearstained cheeks as she knelt beside Faber. “Commander La Noue,” she murmured, “Would it comfort you if I held your other hand?”

“That it would, Your Majesty,” the commander replied. So, as the surgeon brandished his saw, Joan gripped the commander’s hand tight and began to pray. She let go only once, to cover her mouth as she hacked blood into her palm. It blended in easily with the carnage of the field hospital.

Yet it was not till after the battle was over that Joan learned the worst of it. “His Grace, General Conde is dead,” her captain told her in her tent that evening. “He was unseated in the battle. They took him captive, and then they shot him. Unarmed and under guard! Why, as I speak these words, they are parading his corpse through the streets of Jarnac.”

“So much for chivalry,” murmured Joan, trying to ignore the memories of Conde’s pleasant face chuckling, calling her skilled and strong.

“We will need to find another Prince of the Blood to champion our cause,” her captain continued. “Else the army will crumble. If there’s to be any hope for Protestantism in France, we had better produce one with haste. Admiral Coligny will not serve. He’s tried to rally the men, to no avail. In fact, he has bid me request that you make an attempt on the morn.”

“Henry will lead.”

“Henry? Why, he’s only a boy!”

Joan shook her head. “He is nearly a man, Captain, and he’s a keen knack for military matters. He trained with Conde himself, and he saw to the fortification of La Rochelle at my side. He is strong, which matters most of all. If it’s a Prince of the Blood the army requires, Henry will serve.”

“As you say, Majesty,” said her captain with a bow. “But it’s not me you will have to convince.”

*

Joan settled in for a sleepless night. Her captain was correct that she would need to persuade the Huguenot forces well, if they were to swear themselves to Henry. So, she would speak. Joan would rally their courage, and then she would present them with her son and see if they would follow him.

Page after page she wrote, none of it any good. Eloquence alone would not suffice; Joan’s words had to burn in men’s chests. She needed such words as she had never spoken before, and she needed them by morning.  

By three o’clock, Joan’s pages were painted with blood. Her lungs were tearing themselves to shreds in her chest, and the proof was there on the paper beside all her insufficient words. She almost hated herself then. Now, when circumstance required of her greater strength than ever before, all Joan’s frame was weakness and frailty.

An hour later, she fell asleep.

When Joan’s eyes fluttered open, she knew at once where she was. Why, these were her own rooms at home in Navarre! Sunlight flooded through her own open windows and drew ladders of light across Joan’s very own floor. Her bed sat in the corner, curtains open. Her dressing room and closet were just there, and her own writing desk—

There was a figure at Joan’s writing desk. Margaret. She looked up.

“My Joan,” she said. It started as a sigh, but it turned into a sob by the end. “My very own Joan, all grown up. How tired you look.” 

The words seemed larger than themselves somehow. They were Truth and Beauty in capital letters, illuminated red and gold. Something in Joan’s chest seized; something other than her lungs. 

“How do you know me, mother?”

“How could I not? I have been parted from you of late, yet your face is more precious to me than all the kingdoms of the earth.”

“Oh.” And then, because she could not think of anything else to say, Joan asked, “What were you writing, before I came in?”’

“Poetry.” Joan made a noise in her throat. “You disapprove?” asked her mother.

“No, not at all. Would that I had time for such sweet pursuits. I have worn myself out this night writing a war speech. It cannot be poetry, mother. It must be wine. It must–” then, without preamble, Joan collapsed into a fit of coughing. At once, her mother was on her feet, handkerchief in hand. She pressed it to Joan’s mouth, all the while rubbing circles on her back as she coughed and gagged. When the handkerchief came away at last, it was stained red.

“What a courageous woman you are,” Margaret whispered into her hair. “Words like wine for the soldiers, and yourself spitting blood. Will you wear pearls or armor when you address them?”

“I will address them on horseback in the field,” answered Joan with a rasp. “I would have them see my strength.”

Her mother’s dark eyes flickered then. Margaret looked at her daughter, come miraculously home to her against the will of the king and the very flow of time itself. She was not a large woman, but she held herself well. She stood brave and tall, though no one had asked it of her. 

Her own dear daughter did not have time for poetry. Margaret regretted that small fact so much that it came welling up in her eyes.  “And what of your weakness, child? Will you let anyone see that?”

Joan reached out and caught her mother’s tears. Her fingertips were harder than Margaret’s were. They scratched across the sensitive skin below her eyes.

“Did I not meet you like this once before? You are the same Joan who came with me to the jail in Paris once. I did not know you then. I had not yet borne you.”

“Yes, the very same. We visited a Monsieur Faber, I believe. What became of that poor man?”

Margaret sighed. She crossed back over to the desk to fall back into her seat, and in a smaller voice she said, “My brother released him, for a time. And then, when I was next absent from Paris, he was arrested again and sent to the stake before I could return.”

“I saw you save another man, once. I do not know his name. How many prisoners did you save, mother?”

“Many. Not near enough. Not as many as those with whom I wept by lantern light.”

“Did the weeping do any good, I wonder.”

“Those who lived were saved by weeping. Those who died may have been comforted by it. It was the only thing I could give them, and so I must believe that Our Lord made good use of it.”

Joan shook her head. She almost wanted to cry too, then. The feeling surprised her. Joan detested crying.

“All those men freed from prison, yet you never came for me. Why?”

“Francis was determined. A choice between following Christ and keeping you near was no choice at all, though it broke my heart to make it.” 

If Joan shut her eyes, she could still remember the terror of the night she had rescued Henry. “You could have come with soldiers. You could have stolen me away in the night.” 

Margaret did not answer. The tears came faster now and her fair, queenly skin blossomed red. So many years would pass between the dear little girl she’d left in Paris and the stalwart woman now before her. She did not have time for poetry, but if Margaret had been allowed to keep her that would have been different. Joan should have had every poem under the sun. 

“Will you read it?” she asked, taking the parchment from her desk and pressing it into her daughter’s hands. “Will you grant me that boon?”

Slowly, almost numbly, Joan nodded. To Margaret’s surprise, she read aloud. 

“God has predestined His own

That they should be sons and heirs.

Drawn by gentle constraint

A zeal consuming is theirs.

They shall inherit the earth

Clad in justice and worth.”

“Clad in justice and worth,” she repeated, handing back the parchment. “It’s a good poem.”

“It isn’t finished,” replied her mother.

Joan laughed. “Neither is my speech. It must be almost morning now.”

As loving arms closed around her again, Joan wished to God that she could remain in Navarre with her mother. She knew that she and Margaret did not share a heart: her mother was tender like Joan could never be. Yet all the same, she wanted to believe that they had been forged by the same Christian hope and conviction. She wanted to believe that she, Joan, could free the prisoners too. 

She shut her eyes against her mother’s shoulder. When she opened them, she was back in her tent, with morning sun streaming in. 

*

She came before the army mounted on a horse with Henry beside her. Her words were like wine when she spoke. 

“When I, the queen, hope still, is it for you to fear? Because Conde is dead, is all therefore lost? Does our cause cease to be just and holy? No; God, who has already rescued you from perils innumerable, has raised up brothers-in-arms to succeed Conde.

Soldiers, I offer you everything in my power to bestow–my dominions, my treasures, my life, and that which is dearer to me than all, my son. I make here a solemn oath before you all, and you know me too well to doubt my word: I swear to defend to my last sigh the holy cause which now unites us, which is that of honor and truth.”

When she finished speaking, Joan coughed red into her hands. There was quiet for a long moment, and then a loud hurrah! went up along the lines. Joan looked out at the soldiers, and from the front she saw her mother standing there, with tears in her eyes. 

#inklingschallenge #inklings challenge #team tolkien #genre: time travel #theme: visiting the imprisoned #with a tiny little hint of #theme: visiting the sick #story: complete #so i like to read about the reformation in october when i can #when the teams were announced i was burning through a book on the women of the reformation and these two really reached out and grabbed me #Jeanne in particular. i was like 'it is so insane that this person is not more widely known.' #Protestantism has its very own badass Jeanne/Joan. as far as i'm concerned she should be as famous as Joan of Arc #so that was the basis for this story #somewhere along the line it evolved into a study on different kinds of feminine power #and also illness worked itself in there. go me #anyway. hopefully my catholic friends will give me a shot here in spite of the protestantism inherant in the premise #i didn't necessarily mean to go with something this strongly protestant as a result of the Catholic works of mercy themes #but i'm rather tickled that it worked out that way #on the other hand i know that i have people following me that know way more about the French Wars of Religion and the Huguenots than i do #hopefully there's enough verisimilitude here that it won't irritate you when i inevitably get things wrong #i think that covers all my bases #i am still not 100% content with how this turned out but i am at least happy enough to post it #and get in right under the wire. it's a couple hours before midnight still in my time zone #pontifications and creations #leah stories #i enjoy being a girl #the unquenchable fire